


Tomorrow is Shining Like a Razor Blade

by Alcoholic_Kangaroo



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 1991), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Depression, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:07:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27537316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_Kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_Kangaroo
Summary: After a traumatic event leaves Drake crippled with PTSD, he and Launchpad move into a house out in the country to try to heal.
Relationships: Drake Mallard/Launchpad McQuack
Comments: 43
Kudos: 104





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I'm writing Drakepad in 2020. When was the last time I wrote Darkwing Duck/Launchpad? I know it was when I lived with my parents and I left home 12 years ago. Full circle man.
> 
> Anyway, this fic is going to canon compliant with 2017 DuckTales but don't be surprised if I reference the original Darkwing series since it was my entire life as a child.

_“You know, you could do this for real.”_

_“What? Be a superhero?”_

* * *

The wind is surprisingly loud when there are no other noises to cover the sound of it blowing. No cars honking at the vehicle in front of it for not noticing the green light. No airplanes soaring overhead, filled to capacity with businessmen and vacationers always on their way to a new destination. Nobody shouting across the street or trains whipping by or dogs barking on tiny city balconies. Just the howling wind and the rustling leaves it carries with it, creaking branches and the metallic squeak of the old swinging seat on the front porch that looks far too rickety and dangerous to even try sitting on. Even the birds in the trees are quiet this evening, perhaps seeking shelter against the gusts of unusually icy air.

Inside, the house feels very different. It is almost silent, besides the mournful sound of the wind beating against the door. The air is so still it feels difficult to even pull into his lungs as Launchpad struggles to close the back door against the intruding wind without dropping his load. Where did it even come from? The breeze had barely even ruffled his feathers when he had left the house.

It is warmer inside than out, but not warm enough. Drake has allowed the fire to burn down to gray embers once more.

“I’m home,” Launchpad calls towards the front of the house, unloading the tote bags of groceries onto the old wooden countertop. Before they moved here, Launchpad had never even seen a wooden countertop. Not one like this anyway, where you can see the rings of the tree itself, prominent and richly varnished. He has to be more careful about marking it up when he’s cooking than he had been with the marble in their old apartment. Or he chooses to, anyway, because who wants to live the rest of their life in a house with marked-up counters? He begins to remove his coat but decides against it for the time being.

Drake makes a small not-unpleasant sound at Launchpad’s arrival and even lifts his head for a greeting kiss. It’s only been a couple of hours and Launchpad guesses he hasn’t moved an inch from the recliner since he had left him there. But his fleece blanket has begun to slip down into his lap. Launchpad tugs at the edges, pulling the warm cloth up around the smaller duck’s chest and tucking it in under his armpits.

“Let me get the fire stoked up for you,” he says to Drake, touching his narrow, drawn shoulder as he passes. He's always hunched over, it's starting to affect his posture. “Then I’ll start on dinner.”

“Mm,” Drake agrees, but his eyes are back on his book. Reading, again. That’s almost all he ever does. Read, read, read. Launchpad is pretty sure that's not even the same book he was reading this morning. The television pushed against the opposite side of the room isn't plugged in but even if were it would be useless – no cable, no satellite, no VCR. Launchpad dropped it the first they arrived, leaving the old relic splattered in pieces on their gravel driveway. Not that it matters. The only VHS tapes they have are of old Darkwing Duck episodes and nobody wants to watch that.

There isn't even any internet to connect the television to. This far out in the middle of nowhere, neither of their phones picks up a signal, but Drake had asked him pleadingly, in that unnaturally quiet way he talks these days, to not call the cable guy to come set up their Wi-Fi. Three years ago it would have been a command, not a plea.

“I don’t really want to know what’s going on out there right now,” he had explained that first night, as they sat together at their old Ikea table in their new scuffed up kitchen and went through a list of everything that needed to be purchased, fixed, and completed. There had been herbal tea but no coffee because Launchpad had also accidentally dropped the coffee maker. It had been in the same box as the VCR. “If I know I have access to it, I know I won’t be able to stop myself. I don’t want to know everything all the time anymore. My head feels so full.”

It’s been a very long time since Launchpad lived an existence where all of the world’s information and entertainment wasn’t available at his fingertips. It’s almost like living in some period piece film with petticoats and horse-drawn carriages, which is ridiculous, of course. Launchpad was raised without the internet. He didn’t get his first cellphone until he was in his twenties. But still.

It’s taking some time to get used to. Like going cold turkey off nicotine or caffeine. He still reaches for his phone in his pocket, not even thinking about it, even though he doesn’t bother to carry it around with him any longer. He feels a buzz against his thigh, sometimes, a phantom mobile.

They have a landline now. It’s not even cordless. They found it in a closet on the second floor. It's old beige like an 80s Macintosh and the cord is long enough to reach from one side of the house to the other.

The fireplace is old. Probably as old as the ancient farmhouse itself. The bricks in the back are black with years of soot. But they had everything checked before they moved in and the chimney has been cleared out of old bird nests and perhaps a dead raccoon or two. There is a furnace as well which, supposedly, is capable of heating the entire house. Or it would be if it wasn’t so old and decrepit that the guy who delivers gas in the area advised them not to even think about turning it on.

“Could go right up, like that,” he had explained with a snap of his fingers. “I say you get a guy in here to look at it. It’ll probably need to be completely gutted and set up from scratch.”

They had sunk all their money into this place. There is no extra cash on hand to just replace the furnace. Launchpad knows if went to Scrooge and asked, his old boss would gladly cover the cost without question. But Launchpad doesn’t want to ask anybody for help, even somebody as rich as Scrooge where three thousand dollars would be like a penny to a normal person. Besides, Launchpad doesn’t talk to Scrooge much. He doesn’t really talk to anybody much, anymore, not since the incident.

They keep the fire burning instead. Launchpad worries though. It’s warm enough, for now, but it’s still autumn. They haven't even had their first snowfall yet.

And, of course, Launchpad isn’t always here to keep an eye on the fire. Sometimes he has to go places and inevitably that always leads to Drake letting it burn itself out. It isn’t that Drake is incapable of tending to the fire, he’s just always too caught up in his books. Or maybe he just can't make himself care about the cold. Either excuse is passable.

Launchpad makes sure to grab one of the split logs from the pile so that the splintered shavings will catch the faint glow from the embers. He fiddles with the flue for a moment, increasing the flow of air to pull in oxygen to feed the flame. Before long the fire is roaring once more and he closes the flue to keep the heat from escaping back up the chimney.

“There we go,” he says brightly. As he walks behind the back of Drake’s chair towards the kitchen, he bends down to give him a quick kiss on the top of his head. Drake doesn’t seem to notice, or at least he doesn’t acknowledge it. However, only a couple minutes later he follows Launchpad into the kitchen and takes a seat at his spot at the table, the blanket wrapped up around his shoulders.

They used to cook dinner together. Back then it had always been the two of them, sometimes even the three of them, puttering around within the confinement of their tiny apartment kitchen. It had been so small that Launchpad was barely even capable of turning around in it on his own, yet somehow they had always managed to make it work together, as well-oiled and synchronized as an Olympic swim team. Except when he sometimes banged his head against the low-hanging metal light fixture.

This kitchen is three times the size of their old one with plenty of space for two, or three, or four people to work at once. But Drake never helps out. Not anymore. The light is just a simple globe-shaped frosted glass piece; Launchpad never hits his head against it.

Still, he likes when Drake at least sits nearby and keeps him company. Even if he doesn’t say much. He mostly listens, sometimes playing a game of Solitaire with an old deck of cards they had found in one of the drawers their first night in the house. Launchpad had been the one who fished them out.

“I used to sit around the kitchen table and play cards with my grandma and grandpa whenever I visited them,” he had said, surprised by the choking feeling in his own throat. “We could do that, if you want? You like cards, don’t you?”

Drake had taken the box offered and opened it wordless, pulling the entire deck out and letting the box fall to the linoleum with a dry papery sound. He drew the first card and turned it around for a moment, staring at it. Frowning. Then he turned to show Launchpad the card.

A red monarch, plunging a knife into his own head. King of Hearts. The Suicide King.

“I only know how to play two games,” Drake said after a moment, sliding the card back into the middle of the deck. “Poker and Blackjack. Unless you count solitaire and fifty-two card pickup as games.”

“I’ll teach you better ones,” Launchpad had promised, but his sail had already felt deflated.

They haven’t played any games together yet. But Drake seems to like playing solitaire a lot and that’s enough.

“So they told me the only place to buy bonito flakes was at this little Asian shop in the bottom floor of somebody’s house two towns over, so I told them that I had to run back and put away the bean sprouts because I couldn’t make fresh ramen without bonito flakes and you know how quickly bean sprouts go bad.”

“Uh huh,” Drake agrees from the side. Launchpad glances at him and sees he’s shuffling the cards tonight but not actually laying them out. Sometimes he does that. Just likes to keep his hands busy, Launchpad things. He goes back to emptying the bags out.

“Anyway, that’s why we’re not having ramen tonight. But I promise this will be the best curry you’ve ever had. It’d knock the socks off you, if you were wearing any. I know you’re more of an Indian curry fan than a Japanese curry fan but this is going to convert you, babe.”

“You know I always love your cooking, LP,” Drake smiles at him, just a slight tilt at the corners of his mouth. It’s a small gesture but it makes Launchpad feel warm inside. “You never need to apologize to me.”

“Yeah, well,” Launchpad says, feeling awkward. He rubs at his neck as he turns back to the potatoes he’s ready to start chopping. “Everybody needs to apologize sometimes, Dar…Drake.”

The silence that follows is awkward. It’s been over a year since Launchpad slipped and almost called him that. The first few times he had tried to morph it into “darling” but that had been almost as bad. He had never called anybody “darling” his entire life and it felt about as bulky and difficult as square wheels on a car.

Finally, Drake breaks the tension. He begins to set the cards out. They slap against the wood. Launchpad suddenly realizes he didn’t turn the radio on when he came in. He points the remote towards the radio on top of the fridge. All the stations out here only play country music but between the two of them their CD collection is decent enough. Drake even brought along his old cassettes from his childhood. He has the Titanic soundtrack on cassette. It skips on the version of My Heart Will Go On that includes the actors’ voices. It made Launchpad feel about a billion years old the first time they slid it into the player.

“A couple neighbors visited while you were in town.”

“Oh?” Launchpad asks, surprised by this revelation. He pushes the potatoes aside. They leave a starchy film against the pads of his fingers. “You, uh, let them in?”

“Yes, but they said they only had a few minutes to visit,” Drake says. Slap, slap, slap, the cards are in synch with his words. “Said they were just out on their ‘regular evening walk’ but they needed to get home before it got dark out because of the mountain lions. Did you know there are mountain lions in these woods?”

“They walk every evening?” Launchpad asks, ignoring the question about the mountain lions. Of course he’s heard the rumors but if he thinks about it too much he might panic next time he’s out there gathering firework on his own.

“Mm hmm,” Drake confirms. One hard slap. He gathers the cards back up. “There’s apparently a path that runs right behind our house. An old hiking trail, I think.”

“Maybe we could check it out?” Launchpad suggests, tentatively. Drake doesn’t normally like to leave the house, except to putter around the backyard sometimes, but surely there couldn’t be that many people walking a hiking trail twelve miles from the nearest town. He’s glad he didn’t respond to the inquiry about the mountain lions.

“Maybe,” Drake replies, noncommittally. He’s still shuffling. The sound scrapes against Launchpad’s ears unpleasantly. Reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard. “They asked if I was married.”

“Oh,” Launchpad replies. He isn’t sure what else to say. The topic is…not a fun one. But he knows he can’t leave it at that. “I assume you told them no?”

“I told them almost,” Drake replies. Launchpad turns to scrape the vegetables off his cutting board into the already sizzling pan. The regret in his lover’s voice is deep. Nevertheless, his response to the neighbors would probably qualify as a good description of it. Almost. Or maybe, nearly. Or, even, it was a close call. They were supposed to be married not this past summer but the one before. It had been nice of the reception hall to allow them to rebook Donald and Daisy in their place. And it had been handy that the other happy couple had been in need of a reception hall. Launchpad and Drake had needed the three thousand dollars back to put towards the house.

“Did they ask what your almost-wife looks like?” Launchpad asks, teasing as gently as he can. He’s never quite sure these days if gentle teasing will go over well. But when he’s too serious Drake chides him for never joking around like he used to.

“No,” Drake says. Launchpad can hear the smile in his voice, even with his back turned towards him. He knows Drake’s voice so well after all these years. He’s glad. “They said they ‘have seen that strapping young man coming and going’ and ‘do you think he may be willing to come take a look at a broken step on our porch.’”

“Young?” Launchpad asks, scoffing, but grinning despite himself because who wouldn’t like to be referred to in such gracious terms. “In what world is thirty-nine young?”

“The world of a couple geriatric lesbians,” Drake replies. “They must have been at least in their sixties. They said they’ll bring over some strawberry preserve next time. I think if we played out cards right we might even get an apple pie out of it.”

“Play our cards right, hmm?” Launchpad asks, faking consideration. “Well, how about this. We have to let these vegetables boil for twenty minutes before I can add the curry. How about I teach you how to play gin rummy while we’re waiting? I’ve heard it’s all the rage with the septuagenarians.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm enjoying writing this but I'm afraid it's probably boring to anybody else. Oh well, I usually write for myself anyway.

There is a garden in the backyard of the three-story stone estate that Dr. Lavender calls both her home and office. It’s not the type of garden where you grow vegetables but the kind with birdhouses and windchimes and benches and probably a bunch of flowers that blossom in the spring. Except spring has long passed, the first frost of the season has come and gone, and now all the plants are brown and withered. They look crunchy and fragile in the weak late-morning sun that struggles to peak through the billowy gray clouds. The air is so still today even the windchimes are silent.

The fountain still flows. Launchpad sits on the cold stone benches nearest the water feature and watches its hypnotizing rhythm. The nearly-metallic trickling of the water makes him feel colder. He can see his breath when he breathes out, thick and white like the steam milk Drake used to get on his lattes at the small café by their hold apartment.

It feels like the temperature is dropping; the ice-cold stone of the bench bites through the thin fabric of his trousers. Launchpad wishes he had stayed inside and waited for Drake in the downstairs waiting area but it always feels too warm and stuffy inside and he thinks the waiting area was built for people smaller than himself because he’s always bumping his knees against one of the tables or couch corners. The first time they had visited the office he had accidentally shattered a vase when he had bent down to pick up a dropped pen and knocked the glass pot over with his tail. Since then he has excused himself to the garden when she calls Drake past the heavy wooden door into her office.

It’s boring sitting outside. Drake’s sessions only last an hour, never a minute over, but it feels as languishing as a full workday stuck behind a desk at some menial office job. There aren’t even any birds to watch flying around in the air anymore. Do birds hibernate?

Maybe he should bring along one of Drake's books next time. The very idea is somewhat daunting. Launchpad has never been much of a reader and the ones in Drake’s collection are all thick and heavy and remind Launchpad of the ones he used to stand on as a kid to reach the chips his mother used to hide behind the toaster.

But there might be some better books at the library. Ones with pictures, maybe. They haven’t visited the library yet but Launchpad has seen it when he’s driven into town. It’s another big stone building, though not as big as Dr. Lavender’s house, sandwiched between the old-fashioned movie theatre and a rustic-looking coffee shop. Maybe Drake would like to stop by the library if Launchpad asked him. Drake hasn’t been into town yet, just dragging him to his appointments every other week is a hassle, but they’ve been here two months now, isn’t it time Drake at least see what the town looks like?

Not today. Drake meets him in the garden looking as drawn and despondent as he always does after one of his appointments. He hates them. He always complains that talking to some shrink about his feelings doesn’t do anything to help him, griping about how he just wants to be left alone.

“They won’t just let me forget. What’s so wrong with forgetting? Doesn’t everyone want to forget the bad stuff in their lives? What good does it do making me relive it again and again?”

Launchpad doesn’t know much about the brain but he thinks there must be a reason the doctors do the things they do. But it doesn’t matter; they have to make the fifteen-minute drive here every other Wednesday like clockwork, whether they like it or not. It’s the only way the state will keep sending the checks.

They don’t refer to them as disability checks. Drake says they’re his back pay for all the times he saved St. Canard without receiving a single dime. He’s not taking money from the government, the government is paying him for nearly a decade of hard work.

Drake never would have expected any compensation for fighting crime in the past. He was a superhero, not a cop. Launchpad doesn’t think Drake really believes his own words.

Whatever makes it easier for him to accept the money though. They couldn’t get by without it. It’s almost their entire income at this point. Their savings have been gutted. Sometimes, Drake still receives some small royalties from his past acting jobs, but not enough to survive on. Launchpad could probably request some sort of post-dated retirement fund from Scrooge but he doesn’t feel like that’s something he deserves. He had only worked for him for what, ten years? Fifteen?

“LP, come on,” Drake sounds impatient today, like he has another appointment he is nearly late for. A ridiculous thought, really. He’ll probably just go home and disappear into one of his books. Unless Launchpad can convince him to play a board game with him, maybe. “What are you staring at?”

“Huh? Oh, just the fountain. Can you hear it?”

“The water?” Drake asks, frowning as he tightens his jacket up near his throat. He turns to look towards the fountain. It’s green like the Statue of Liberty is green but the water flows clear from the ancient-looking Greek-style vase held by the goddess figurine. “I’m surprised she hasn’t turned it off for the year. It’s cold enough it must be icing over at night. Could freeze up between some cracks and shatter the whole damn thing.”

“It sounds cold,” Launchpad agrees. Drake arches an eyebrow at him, confused by the statement. “You know how you can hear the difference between hot water and cold water? It sounds like pouring a glass of ice water. That’s a lot different than how it sounds when you pour water for tea.”

“Well I could use a cup of tea, personally,” Drake says. He slips his arm around Launchpad’s. It feels clumsy, their arms thick from the heavy jackets they’re both wearing. Launchpad’s a rough brown Carhartt, Drake’s a soft but thick black wool. “Let’s go crank the heater up in the car.”

There had been a short while, years ago, that Drake wouldn’t allow Launchpad to drive. Specifically, he wouldn’t let Launchpad drive when Gosalyn was in the car because he was worried that something would happen to her if there were an accident. Then one day they were heading out somewhere, someplace Launchpad can’t even recall now, a movie theatre or out for groceries, and Drake had tossed him the keys with a grin and a “You drive.” They hadn’t been dating yet. No awkward first kiss, even. But those words had left Launchpad with the warm fuzzies inside because he could hear the unspoken ones tacked on at the end “ _I trust you_.”

Drake has never driven this car. It’s not brand new but it’s new to them. A trade-in for something with four-wheel drive that would do better on snowy or muddy roads than the old convertible that they used to zip around the city in.

It’s a little newer than the old car. There are a lot of fancy menus in the touchscreen menu that Launchpad still hasn’t figured out, including the clock, which is why it reads 3:27 AM when they climb in. Drake messes with the heater before he bothers with his seatbelt. Launchpad sits with the car running, waiting, not wanting to move the vehicle until Drake is safely strapped in.

The drive is just under six and a half miles back to their house. They’re both grateful to have found a psychologist with experience in treating PTSD outside of the town. Launchpad has asked, foolishly, if she worked out of her house because all her patients appreciated the silence of the countryside.

“No,” she had laughed, but not in a mean way. “It’s just cheaper than renting a space in town. I inherited this mansion from my father, why not put it to use?”

It isn’t a mansion, not really. Maybe around here, it would be big and fancy enough for the locals to refer to it as one but Launchpad has spent a fair share of his time in real mansions and he knows what a real one looks like. Besides, people with real mansions don’t look after their own gardens.

He checks on the fire as soon as they enter the house. Launchpad never feels great about leaving the hot coals behind with nobody to keep an eye on them but if they let them go out entirely it can be awfully difficult to get the fire going again. Besides, they leave the fire alone for hours throughout the night, what’s the difference between that and leaving the house for a couple of hours?

Well, nobody is here to hear the fire alarm, for one.

The coals are almost completely gray but there’s a little red in the center when Launchpad breaks them open with the poker. He throws some kindling in to stoke them back up. By the time he hears the kettle whistling in the kitchen, the fire is roaring and his fingertip is singed. He sticks it into his mouth to suck as he walks towards the kitchen.

Drake hands him his teacup. They’re matching purple mugs, Father’s Day presents from a high school-aged Gosalyn back when she was taking an elective class in ceramics. Drake’s has a chip on the handle and the word _SUPERHERO_ is hand-painted onto the bottom in enamel with faded white brushstrokes. Launchpad’s says _SIDEKICK_. On the sides they both read _DAD_.

He lets his finger rub against the _A_ as he holds the cup, feeling both the familiar roughness of the raised enamel and the warmth of the still-seeping tea.

“Have...have you heard from Gosalyn recently?”

Drake shakes his head. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter and he seems so small in this big kitchen. Except that’s not it. Or that’s not only it. He is small. Smaller than he used to be. His shoulders are more narrow. His arms thinner. The strength of decades worth of gym sessions whittled away in just a couple of years. This doesn’t bother Launchpad in the slightest. He would find Drake attractive at any size, big or small. It’s just taking some getting used to, letting go of the strong superhero he still sees in his head whenever he imagines his lover.

He’s not a superhero and he’s not strong. Not anymore.

And it’s all Launchpad’s fault.

He sets down his cup and reaches for Drake, engulfing him in his arms. Drake makes a small surprised noise, his body tense for a moment before he relaxes into Launchpad’s embrace. His arm is still stiff as he struggles to not spill his tea on Launchpad’s back.

“You okay, LP?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. How about you?”

“Well, I’ve been worse.”

Launchpad laughs but it sounds wet. He lifts his arm up around Drake’s shoulder to wipe at his nose but doesn’t let go of him. They’re both still wearing their coats and it’s like hugging a theme park mascot. Still nice, though. He doesn’t let go until his eyes are dry.

“So, uh, Gosalyn,” he says again. “She hasn’t called?”

“Not since last time I mentioned it,” Drake confirms.

“So do we know if…”

Drake shakes his head once more, knowing what Launchpad is asking. It’s nearly Thanksgiving. Requesting she make the trip for just a few days seems like asking a lot. He was hoping they’d know about Christmas by now though. She can’t stay on campus over Christmas break but last time they saw her in August she had been talking about maybe staying with her boyfriend’s family over break this year. More convenient, since they only lived a couple of hours from the campus, not on the other side of the country.

She hasn’t even been to the house yet, only seen pictures. And most of those just from the real estate site.

Launchpad has set up her bedroom for her himself. Her old posters are already tacked up on the wall, her childhood blanket neatly tucked around her bed. Ready for her to come spend the holidays with her dads. No attached bathroom like the one in the master bedroom but she would have the second one on the floor to herself. She could even bring that boyfriend along if she wants. They haven’t been presented with the opportunity to meet him yet.

He hopes she makes it. They could use some light in their lives. An excuse to drag in a freshly-downed tree and cover it with white lights and blue baubles and silver tinsel. They could never fit a large tree into the apartment but Launchpad can all but see a giant beauty of a fir right in front of the window of the sparsely decorated living room, the lights throwing a homey glow across the snow outside. Like some painting of the classic winter wonderland.

After lunch, Launchpad heads into town on his own. He’s never applied for a library card and he thought they would ask for the important stuff – social security, birth certificate, at least proof of residence. They ask for his address and phone number but no proof that either actually belongs to him. What’s stopping somebody from driving to town to town and just stealing a bunch of books from all their libraries?

“Limit is four for now,” the elderly woman behind the desk says, smiling at him warmly. “After six months we’ll crank it up to ten, as long as you return them on time. Or close to, anyway.”

“Neat,” Launchpad says, looking at the little piece of paper. It’s not even laminated. It feels like a business card. It has his name on it like one too. Makes him feel oddly important.

He asks the librarian for some recommendations and walks out with a small stack of old, heavy books clutched to his chest as if he were an honest to goodness intellectual. He leaves the books on the front seat of the car when he runs into the grocery store. He swears the car smells like old books when he climbs back in.

“Why do old books always smell weird?” Launchpad asks Drake when he gets home.

“What old books?”

“You know, just old books. They have that old book smell.”

“I think I read somewhere it’s the old type of ink they used to use,” Drake shrugs. “Why? Since when have you been smelling old books?”

Launchpad shows him his new library card. Drake smiles at him as if he were a small boy showing his mother a painting he did in art class. When he reaches for it Launchpad startles for a moment. Irrationally, he’s scared that Drake will smudge the card, which is ridiculous because his information is written in Sharpie and everybody knows Sharpie doesn’t smudge.

“I didn’t know there was a library," Drake comments, turning to look at the card as if he were counterfeit. The backside is blank. 

“Yeah,” Launchpad says. He lifts up the beige tote bag he’s been holding in his other hand and starts pulling out the books. “They have a ton of books too. Like, a literal ton. I didn’t even know there were that many books in the world. I got this horror book about a haunted hotel and this one about this dude who travels through time and this book of poetry by this chick named Emily something. Oh, and this one about like this guy from Mars. He’s not an alien, I don’t think.” He turns the book around to look at the cover and reads it aloud, “ _Red Rising_.”

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to read that one,” Drake says, reaching to take the last book from Launchpad’s hand. Launchpad lets him take it. “Do you mind if I read it first? Since you have the other three to get through still?”

“I didn’t know you liked space stories.”

“I like lots of stories. I didn’t know you liked reading.”

“I don’t,” Launchpad confesses, rubbing at the back of his neck. “But you didn’t like to either a few years ago and now you do it all the time. So I figured I could give it a try.”

“We can talk about it once we both read it?” Drake suggests, tapping his fingers on the book cover. It looks almost new, still glossy. “That could be fun, seeing what we both thought? Like a two-person book club?”

“Or maybe we could read it together?” Launchpad suggests, suddenly lighting up at the idea, the energy in his voice palpable. He welcomes the thought of getting to spend more direct time with Drake, as well as the opportunity just to stave away his growing daily boredom. “You could read it out loud for both of us! Maybe I’ll like it more if somebody else is reading?”

“We could try that,” Drake says slowly. Launchpad feels his heart sink. Drake sounds much less excited about the prospect than he does. Launchpad is an idiot. He should know better by now than to try to force stuff onto Drake like this. Drake doesn't like new things. Drake doesn't like noise. Drake likes quietness and solitude.

“No, you’re right, stupid idea,” Launchpad quickly begins, but Drake is already shushing him.

“Stop it, you’re not stupid. It’s a brilliant idea." Launchpad's heart is soaring. Drake is the only person in the world who ever referred to Launchpad as brilliant, except maybe Dewey when he was younger. "I was just trying to think of a good place to do it. We really should get around to buying a couch. I wonder if there are any available in the classified section.”

“Let’s check.”

The mail hasn’t arrived yet but yesterday’s paper is still on the counter. It’s a local publication with news of an upcoming spaghetti dinner and the closing of some craft store Launchpad has never heard of. They peruse the classified section and find a lot of free kittens and old televisions. No furniture, though.

“I knew we should have kept our old couch,” Drake gripes, tossing the paper onto the ground in disgust. 

“That thing was falling right through,” Launchpad reminds him. The only reason they hadn’t bought a new one years ago was because of the daunting task of trying to drag it up six flights of stairs and the old one down the same six. “There’s a thrift shop in town. I bet they have used furniture. How about we go look tomorrow?”

The way Drake looks at him, Launchpad knows that “we” is more of an “I.”

“I’m going to go read in the tub for a bit, my feet are freezing. Can you bring that box of clothes up from the spare room? I think my slippers are still packed inside it.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys don't mind the short chapters. I feel like with a fic this slow, long chapters are harder to digest.

There had been a time when Launchpad’s sex life with Drake had seemed mythological in its magnitude. They had both been younger then and just dipping their toes into their previously unexplored but all-encompassing desire to touch each other. It hadn’t been Launchpad’s first relationship with another man, but it was the first one where the sexual magnetism had been so strong that he had found it difficult to keep his hands to himself at times. With the men he had dated in the past it had been more of an emotional bond than a sexual one. The sex had almost come as a second thought. A side perk of a particularly deep friendship.

Drake was different. They just clicked in a way that Launchpad had only clicked with a small handful of women before. Their minds and bodies always seemed to be in tune. When Launchpad wanted it to be long and slow, Drake always seemed to be more than prepared to spend the entire morning sprawled out, wallowing in their sex-perfumed sheets. When Launchpad wanted it quick and rough against the wall of a back alley after a too-close brush with death, Drake was already dragging him against him, legs parting, needy and accepting with filthy words on his bruising lips.

It’s different now. It’s never bad, mind you, but it’s sporadic. Before there had almost been something of a schedule to their lovemaking. They fit it in when they could; in the mornings after Gosalyn had already left for school but before Launchpad made the long drive back to Duckburg, or when they were together in the bridge tower as the sun rose over the water, adrenalin and testosterone from crimefighting flooding them both with a sense of heady invincibility.

Now they have all the time in the world to do as they like but initiating is…difficult. Launchpad doesn’t want to feel like he’s forcing Drake into anything so he never makes the first move and Drake doesn’t have much motivation to begin anything, let alone a sexual encounter. He claims it’s the meds, dampening his libido, but Launchpad is pretty sure he just says that to make him feel better.

When Launchpad wakes up hard with the sensation of tight fingers already wrapped around his cock, movingly just short of agonizingly slowly, and another persistent stiffness nudging at his hip, he is more than glad to just roll with it. Or rather, roll onto it; it being Drake, who is already wet and open and ready. He feels bony beneath him and his legs lack the muscle to lock him into place like they used to, but no matter, Launchpad has no plans to go anywhere else anytime soon. Not with Drake’s nimble fingers already guiding him inside his slippery entrance.

He never lets Launchpad do that part anymore. Sometimes, Launchpad misses the ritual of it all. Slowly opening him up with his clumsy fingers and generous over-eager pours of the cinnamon-scented lube they used to buy at that seedy little shop at the corner of 17th and Elm. When they had just started dating Launchpad had prematurely ejaculated the first time they had attempted intercourse, his fingers buried inside of Drake up to his knuckles. It had been a humiliating experience, Launchpad has always prided himself on his sexual prowess, but the way Drake moaned and writhed and grabbed at the sheets…

Yeah, sometimes Launchpad misses turning Drake into a melted pile of whipped cream with just his fingers.

This morning isn’t one of those times, however. It’s been weeks and he’s eager to just push into Drake’s accommodating body, just happy to be welcomed inside once more. It’s about his favorite place to be in the world and he welcomes the chance to hold Drake and make him forget about everything for a little while. Launchpad’s still half asleep and his overheated body feels overly sensitive.

He’s gentle with him. It’s as vanilla as an ice cream shop these days but Launchpad doesn’t mind. They had years to experiment with the kinky stuff and while it had been fun he’s fine letting go of the handcuffs and hair pulling and dirty talk. Kissing is a good replacement, and hugging, and holding each other tight. Drake doesn’t scratch at Launchpad’s back like he used to, a painful yet extremely arousing variety of play, but he does loop his arms around Launchpad’s neck and refuse to let go as if his hold were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth. That’s almost as good. Almost.

Drake doesn’t scream anymore either. Or moan. Or whimper. He just breathes heavily through his nose, occasionally whispering instructions like “not so hard” or “slower” even though Launchpad already thought he was being gentle. He kisses him and it is part apology, part need to get closer. They both have morning breath and Drake still smells like garlic and ginger from last night’s stir fry. One of the arms around his neck loosens and disappears, reappearing with the fingers pressing into Launchpad’s ass as Drake pulls him deeper into him. He holds him there so Launchpad can only grind into him. Drake is clenching around him and Launchpad has to close his eyes and concentrate on not finishing yet. After a moment, the other arm loosens as well, falling across Drake’s eyes, hiding them from Launchpad’s gaze. His lover has always enjoyed feeling him deep inside him. He once told Launchpad that he liked the ache he would sometimes feel for days afterward, that it made him feel like he belonged to him.

He pushes in deeper, feeling Drake’s legs spread wider around him, but he doesn’t allow his weight to settle fully on top of him. Even when Drake was at his most ripped, he has never been able to bear the full brunt of his weight, given their rather prominent size difference, and Drake is all skin and bones now. Even his skin feels thinner. He feels fragile enough to break. Launchpad braces one arm more firmly onto the mattress beside Drake’s head and uses the other to grab at Drake’s thigh, hiking him up so he can push further in so that his pelvis is flush against Drake’s hips. Beneath him, the other man trembles for a second, a whole-body quake, and lets out a shaky breath. Drake grabs at his own hair and slits open one of his eyes to look up at Launchpad.

He’s beautiful. That thought had first popped into Launchpad’s head nearly a decade ago when they had been locked together in a tiny trailer stuffed with overpriced merchandise. Since that day he has aged, they both have aged. There are bags under Drake’s eyes, a few extra wrinkles creasing his forehead, a handful of new gray hairs appearing on his head every week, and he’s still the most beautiful person Launchpad has ever seen.

He tells him that before he kisses him again and Drake smiles. It’s a small smile but it warms Launchpad from the inside out.

Launchpad groans when he comes. It’s embarrassingly loud, weeks worth of pent-up tension releasing in an instant. He doesn’t notice how his arm is shaking from the effort of holding himself. He doesn’t even think about why he was holding himself up, his mind fuzzy with post-orgasmic bliss still, and he reaches for Drake’s face with both his hands. He can feel the boniness of his lover’s chest against his own still-bulging muscles. He’s holding Drake’s head in his hands as he half kisses, half breathes into Drake’s mouth, murmuring his love for him.

Except Drake is not kissing him back. He’s shoving at Launchpad’s shoulders and harsh, desperate cries are muffled by Launchpad’s mouth over his. His palms slap against Launchpad’s temple. There’s a pain throbbing in his eyelid.

“Letmeoutletmeoutletmeout,” the words run together. Launchpad pulls his weight off of Drake as quickly as he can, one of his knees crushing Drake’s ankle into the mattress. He’s apologizing, already worrying, what if he broke his ankle, and he’s angry at himself for fucking this up. He should have known. He shouldn’t have-

“DW, shit, I mean, Drake, I mean-”

Drake is off the bed, scrambling, tripping over the sheets and blankets as they catch him around the ankle. He lands hard on his knees against the solid wood. Launchpad swears he hears something crunch and can’t help but wince. One of the pillows flies against the bedside lamp and it crashes to the floor. Broken glass. Drake stops, crouching on the floor in the middle of the room where nothing can touch him.

He didn’t orgasm, he didn’t get a chance, but he’s already softening; Launchpad’s semen is dripping down the back of his thigh. But his fingers are buried in his hair, pulling, and he’s gasping for air as if he can’t breathe. Their bedroom isn’t small but it isn’t large and Launchpad knows he started this by trapping Drake’s body underneath him. He’s so stupid. He’s so stupid. He knows Drake can’t do small spaces. He can’t deal with feeling trapped.

“Claustrophobia,” his old psychologist in St. Canard had said, when recommending they move somewhere more open, somewhere away from the city. “Among all the other things we’ve already discussed.”

Launchpad doesn’t even think about it. His own robe is hanging off the back of the bedroom door so he grabs it and throws it over Drake’s shoulders before picking him up. His lover resists, fighting against Launchpad, landing a decent punch to his eye as he is not capable of even seeing him, or at least not seeing him as he is. But Launchpad knows he needs to get out of here. Out of the room, out of the house. He carries the struggling man down the creaky wooden stairs, shoves the backdoor open with his shoulder, and drops Drake as carefully as he can given his flailing arms and kicking feet into the middle of the backyard. It’s cold out, much too cold for just a robe, and Launchpad’s feet are already starting to burn against the icy dirt. He’s as naked as the day he hatched.

The robe is big on Drake but he’s wearing it like a tent, it’s not tucked under him and not protecting him from the coldness of the earth. Drake’s still covering his head with both arms, rocking himself and begging to be let out, the words eventually losing all distinction until it’s nothing but a long, never-ending keen of distress.

Launchpad stands to the side even though he wants to go to him. He knows he can’t do anything when Drake gets like this. It’s his fault. All of it. Not just the episode but the PTDS, the claustrophobia, the fear, the anxiety. Everything. He’s so stupid. He’s always been so stupid.

“You’re outside,” Launchpad says quietly, soothingly, as if he were talking to a baby deer. Drake is finally quiet except for the occasional sniffle. He has no idea how long has passed – ten minutes, twenty, an hour. Time always crawls when he has to stand there helplessly and observe Drake’s pain. He’s crouched down to be at Drake’s height but he still keeps his distance because if he’s too close he’ll feel trapped. He knows this from past experiences. “You’re not trapped; you’re outside and there’s plenty of room and you can go wherever you want.”

Drake doesn’t say anything. His hands slide down from his head and cover his face. After another long while, he begins to sob and Launchpad just continues to wait.

* * *

Launchpad marks the day on the calendar and gives Dr. Lavender a call to inform her that Drake had another episode. She asks him if he needs somebody out there to help contain him but he assures her, glancing at Drake sitting at the kitchen table in nothing but his bathrobe, that everything is fine.

It has been nearly three weeks since the last episode. It is almost a record for them.

It feels like progress.

How much of it should be attributed to the change in scenery? It’s easier to avoid triggers when you seclude yourself in the middle of nowhere. It’s easier to forget that Darkwing Duck ever existed when you don’t see the people on the television constantly asking where he went.

Drake sips at the cup of chamomile tea that Launchpad made for him and takes the Valium that he sets in the palm of his hand. He just shakes his head at the list of food Launchpad offers to cook him.

He’s shaking, both from nerves and from sitting on the cold, damp ground. The fire is nearly out, Launchpad thinks. It may be entirely out even. The kitchen is freezing. The tiles are like walking on ice blocks.

Drake’s knees are scraped and bleeding and coated in mud. Launchpad slips the robe off over his shoulders and helps him into the half-filled bathtub. They leave the bathroom door open. Drake sits between his legs, lying back against Launchpad’s chest. He doesn’t normally talk much after an episode. Sometimes he’ll be almost mute the day or two that follow one. When he whispers just one word, one syllable, Launchpad knows he wants him to sing to him.

The first time Launchpad had ever sung to him, not with him but to him, was in a bathtub. They didn’t have one in their apartment, they couldn’t afford an apartment big enough to house one, but they had been on vacation together in a hotel room with a giant whirlpool tub that Drake had positively drooled over. They had sat in the bubbles for an hour together, eating chocolates and drinking champagne and just talking, talking, talking. It had felt honeymoon-esque. It was their first getaway.

“I just want to feel your voice against my back,” he has explained, when Launchpad had nervously explained that he was far from the best musician out there and Drake would probably just want to cover his ears if he heard him even attempt to belt out a song. “It’s like feeling the bass at a concert. The rumble.”

When they tried to make love in that tub they had splashed water all over the floor and Launchpad had slipped on the bar of soap, nearly banging his head against the side of the tub. It’s a good memory. They kept the ritual of bathtub songs from there on out but kept sexual encounters to nice, big, safe beds without any hard sides to slam your head into.

Launchpad hugs Drake from behind and tries to think of something to sing. Ridiculously, the first tune that pops into his head is the Darkwing Duck theme song. That’s about the worst possible song that Launchpad can sing right now. Drake does not need to be reminded of what he has lost. Darkwing Duck is a relic of a past life. A tempest of good memories, and great memories, and absolutely horrible memories swirling together in Drake’s head. In his own head.

The second song that pops into his head is _Hey There Delilah_. It’s almost as ridiculous as the Darkwing song but it’s easy to sing along to and Launchpad knows the word so he sings it softly, his voice cracking on the high notes, as he soaps up Drake’s hair for him. He changes “Delilah” to “Drake Mallard” because the syllables are the same and he hopes maybe he’ll get a chuckle out of him but Drake is limp against him. Drained for the day and the meds already kicking in. He’ll probably just want to crawl back into bed once their bath is over.

“A thousand miles seems pretty far,” he rumbles in his voice that he knows is much too deep for the song. “But they've got planes and trains and more planes.”

If Drake notices that the words are wrong he doesn’t say anything. Launchpad finishes the song anyway, feeling like a failure, until Drake whispers very, very softly, “More.”

Maybe he should try picking up the guitar or something. He needs a hobby.

God, he misses flying.

Afterwards, he wraps Drake up in his favorite fluffy yellow towel and leads him back to the bed. Drake allows himself to be tucked in without fuss but once he’s beneath the blankets his focus seems to change. It’s as if he no longer notices Launchpad is even in the room as he just stares out the window over the canopy of the trees and into the mountains in the far distance. His eyes have glossed over.

Launchpad is glad that the medicine is helping but he misses Drake when has one of his gone days. He bends to kiss him softly on the cheek, so gently he is not sure if they even touch or if his lips only brush against air, and tells him quietly that he needs to go downstairs to stoke the fire but he’ll be back in just a few minutes. He doesn’t expect an answer and he doesn’t receive one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Went back and edited it for errors on 11/21.

Launchpad is enthusiastically whipping a bowl of cheesy mashed potatoes and balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder when Drake pads into the kitchen. For the first time in a long while he is wearing proper clothing – a warm, downy soft sweater than Launchpad had bought him years ago for Christmas. Nothing too fancy but it’s a nice sweater in shades of brown and orange and the colors pop compared to the whiteness of his shiny, recently washed feathers. It’s a casual but nice top and better than the bathrobe or pajamas he’s been stalking the house in for the last month.

“Really? Who puts marshmallows on sweet potatoes?” Launchpad asks, the disgust thick in his voice. A spoonful of creamy potatoes goes flying off the end of the metal whisk and lands on the front of his faded gray t-shirt, just missing the logo for the now-closed curry house he had won it from fifteen years ago on a hot curry challenge. “Oh! Gos, your dad is here, do you want to talk to him?”

“Gosalyn?” Drake asks, perking up when he realizes their daughter is on the phone. He sets down the book he was clutching against his chest, leaving it abandoned on the opposite side of the island counter. “Why didn’t you tell me she called?”

“It’s only been like two minutes,” Launchpad apologizes, nearly dropping the phone into the bowl of potatoes. He catches the wire with his chin pressed against his chest, but it swings haphazardly in the air and he can’t lift his head or set down the large metal bowl of pulverized spuds. “Quick, grab it before it falls in.”

Drake walks away with the phone, twirling the cord around his index finger as he speaks into the receiver, and he’s already reverted to full-on parent mode, asking their daughter how Thanksgiving is with the boyfriend and how the traffic was out of school earlier that week and if she remembered to bring along any homework that may be due after the holiday.

“I really wish you were here, honey,” he bemoans into the phone, his voice pitching in that way it does only when he talks to Gosalyn or cute kittens. “This is the first time we’ve spent Thanksgiving apart since you were a little kid. Launchpad is making that squash you like.”

Launchpad tries to listen in but the house phone is quieter than a modern smartphone normally is and Drake’s ear against it is muffling Golsalyn's voice. He sets the bowl of potatoes down onto the counter and goes to scoop another spatula of half-melted butter into them. They’re more yellow than white at this point between the butter and the cheddar. But then the oven timer is going off and the turkey needs to be basted again. Launchpad flounders for a second; if he leaves the potatoes too long the butter will cool and not blend smoothly but if he leaves the turkey too long it will go dry.

You can always reheat potatoes, he reasons after a few seconds, but you can’t save a dry turkey.

“That’s great!” Drake’s voice lifts in excitement, then he covers up the receiver and whisper-yells towards Launchpad’s back. “She said she’s going to be able to make it for Christmas.”

“Awesome,” Launchpad calls back, head in the oven like one of those dark Christmas cards Louie likes to mail out every year. “Ask her which airport she’s flying into; I’ll go pick her up myself.”

The nearest airport is four hours away. Or rather, the nearest large airport. The other is four hours and fifteen minutes, depending on traffic. There are some smaller ones around but it’s unlikely Gosalyn would be flying into any of those unless she's taking a six-seater but those are unreliable at the best of time, let alone in the middle of winter. Launchpad doesn't mind the drive anyway. A four-hour car trip sounds like a great escape from the everyday monotony of his current life and maybe he can get Drake to come along.

“She doesn’t know yet,” Drake replies a few moments later. “Do you need money for the plane, sweetheart? We can deposit some into your account. Oh, well, tell him that’s nice of him but-”

Whatever Drake is attempting to say gets cut off by one of Gosalyn’s usual headstrong comments. Launchpad pushes the turkey back into the oven. Just a breast this year. With only the two of them, they have no need for a large, full-size bird in the oven. Still, Launchpad isn’t sparing on the sides. They’re going to have a traditional, full-spread feast with all the trimmings, even if they end up living on them for the next week.

“That’s too bad,” Drake’s voice sounds even more disappointed than when she had called to tell them she was just going to spend Thanksgiving vacation with her boyfriend’s family this year. When Launchpad glances at him he’s still pacing across the kitchen, twirling the cord. It’s beginning to form a knot. His own mother used to yell at him for doing that as a kid, said it ruined the cords. “Yeah, yeah, I hope so too. The sixteenth, you said? I’ll let your dad know.”

“Let me know what?” Launchpad asks, leaning his hip against the counter. He’s been cooking for hours and his feet are starting to tire from just standing around in the small, rectangular area of the kitchen entrapped between the counters. He feels like a caged tiger in a circus.

“Her last final is on the sixteenth,” Drake says, covering the receiver once more. He steps closer to the island counter is barely separating them. “She thinks she’s only going to be able to make the last couple of days of Hannukah this year. Says she’s hoping she can get a flight right after her morning final but last time she looked there weren’t any direct flights left and she doesn’t feel like taking a fourteen-hour trip with six layovers.”

“Well, a couple of days is better than no days,” Launchpad reasons, but he feels more depressed about the prospect than he thought he would have. Hannukah isn't the biggest holiday out there but it's one he's always enjoyed and one he loved sharing with both Drake and Gosalyn. He can’t blame her for staying at Duckburg University instead of transferring to an out-of-state school just to be close to her fathers. She has her own life, her own friends and sports teams that rely on her, and that boyfriend of hers that they still haven’t met. Besides, when she had applied to Duckburg U she had thought she would be near her fathers the whole time. They were the ones who left, not her. Last year she had driven home every evening like a good daughter, even though the first-year students were required to live on campus, just to celebrate Hannukah with her family. “Can I talk to her for a moment?”

Drake holds out the phone. The cord is still knotted and hands heavily in the air now, making it feel cockeyed when Launchpad takes it in his right hand. It's tugging to the left.

“Gos, sweetie,” he says, wiping turkey grease and butter onto the towel tucked into the waistband of his pants. “Do you want me to send you some chocolate in the mail? No, of course, it’s no trouble. Do you still have your menorah we got you for your bat mitzvah? What? They won’t let you light candles in the dorms? Well, that sucks.”

“That’s discrimination,” Drake objects, leaning across the counter. Launchpad pushes off it with his hip and walks around the island's end towards Drake so he can put his ear close to the phone as well. “They can’t just tell kids they can’t practice their religion, I’m half in my mind to call up our lawyer and-”

Launchpad interrupts him with a kiss, grabbing at the end of his tail with the hand that isn’t clutching onto the phone. Drake glares, rubbing at the spot where he was groped indignantly. He reaches up for the phone, half falling on Launchpad as he grabs at it.

“I’ll send along that battery-operated one we picked up at that winter festival. Here, your dad’s trying to wrestle the phone out of my hand.”

Drake grabs onto the old phone and takes advantage of the long cord, disappearing back into the living room, towards the warmth of the blazing fire. Between the fire and all the cooking going on inside the kitchen, the entire downstairs area feels warm and cozy today. Drake is ranting into the receiver now and Launchpad is left alone with the food. The squash should be cool enough to scoop out by now. He hums happily as he listens in on the phone conversation, only understanding one in maybe ever ten words between the distance and the quiet radio playing overhead. He’s enjoying the normalcy of it all.

Launchpad is glad this is turning out to be one of Drake’s good days. After his breakdown last week, Drake had moped in bed for several days with his pillow over his head, just demanding Launchpad leave him alone whenever he came upstairs and tried to ask him if he wanted something to eat or to play cards or to go outside for a walk. He had even thrown a cup at him when he came in on the second day to ask if he wanted a shower, yelling that if he wanted to lay there in his filth for the rest of his life that was his own prerogative to do so. The glass had shattered on the door and Launchpad had waited until Drake had fallen asleep to slink inside to sweep it up.

Today is a different mood entirely. But Drake has always liked the holidays. Especially the big, boisterous, family events held every year at McDuck Manor. Drake had been an only child and had lost his mother when still very young, so holidays had always been a lonesome affair to him as a kid. He had told Launchpad once that he used to always be envious of the families on television because they always had so much fun together while he usually spent his holidays alone.

“Dad tried, but it was just the two of us and he had to work himself to the bone just to support us both. He’d probably still be alive if he hadn’t been forced to work overtime for so many years.”

Those were the darkest days for him. Between losing his father in his first year of acting school and finding Launchpad, Drake had spent all the between holidays alone in his little studio apartment. It wasn’t that he didn’t have friends but they had their own families, their own gatherings to attend. But then he and Launchpad began dating. Because this made him part of Launchpad’s family he also became part of the McDuck family which meant he was now kin with Scrooge, and Mrs. B, and Webby, and Lena, and Violet, and the boys, and Donald, and Daisy, and Della, and Penny and-

It feels quiet, suddenly, inside the kitchen alone like this. There’s an aching in Launchpad’s chest. It’s not…painful, exactly. More of an emptiness. He wonders what everyone is doing in Duckburg right now even though it’s a stupid question. He knows what they’re all doing. They’re probably getting ready to sit around the giant dining table and enjoy an hours-long feast like they do every year. Not that they eat for that long, most of the evening will just be spent talking and laughing and singing and telling stories about times long past. Lena and Violet’s fathers are probably there as well as Gyro and Fenton and Boyd. They usually make it for the holidays. Sometimes holidays in McDuck manor had felt like going to a PSA meeting for same-sex families.

Yikes, he hasn’t even called Fenton yet to wish him a happy Thanksgiving. He’s on Launchpad’s list of calls to make today but the scientist slash superhero was supposed to be after Dewey’s call but before Gosalyn's and she’s messed up everything by calling them instead of waiting to hear from her fathers. He shouldn't have expected anything different from her.

“Wait, just a second, you can at least say goodbye to your dad,” Drake scolds her over the phone as he drifts back into the kitchen. The cord has wrapped around something in the living room and is strung taut, resisting Drake’s attempts to pull the receiver to Launchpad behind the stove. “They’re about to start dinner, do you want to say bye to her?”

“Have a good dinner, honey,” he calls across the room towards the phone.

“You got that? Okay, good. Call me tomorrow after you look at the plane tickets.”

Drake hangs the phone back up in its cradle, not bothering to seek out the kink in the line, then turns to Launchpad with a smile. He looks like his old self again. Or he would if you didn’t know that those creases at the corners hadn’t been there three years ago. And if you had never seen the way his eyes used to shine.

“Turkey done yet?” Drake asks, dramatically sniffing at the air for effect, rubbing his hands together.

“’Bout another hour,” Launchpad tells him. “Just to be safe. We don’t want to cut it open and find it pink in the center.”

“Slower than our old stove, isn’t it?” Drake observes. “I feel like you put it in at the crack of dawn.”

“It’s older than the old one,” Launchpad reminds him. “And electric. The one in the apartment was gas.”

“Well, I’m going to go ahead and start the celebration early,” Drake says decisively, making a beeline for the cupboards. Launchpad watches him, confused for a moment until he sees him pull out a bottle of red wine. There were two up there, a red and a white, both gifts from their geriatric lesbian neighbors down the street. The women had stopped by on Monday morning to see if they needed any help with getting ready for the holiday, handing them a little paper bag with the two bottles snuggled inside the crepe paper like a couple of precious eggs.

“We just thought we’d bring along a welcome to the area present for your first Thanksgiving here,” the one with the platinum blond hair had explained. Launchpad can never keep their names straight. They look almost identical besides their hair color. He had heard that happens with lesbians sometimes. They live together long enough they start to look like each other. He’s glad Drake doesn’t look like him. Drake is much cuter than he is. “We didn’t know if you were into reds or whites so we brought one of both.”

The answer is neither. Drake cannot drink and Launchpad chooses not to out of his respect for him. It feels too much like taunting to just have liquor lying around the house.

“Your medication,” Launchpad begins as Drake is already unwrapping the foil around the top of the bottle

“I didn’t take it today,” Drake says, waving off the objection. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s a holiday. Skipping them for one day isn’t going to kill me.”

“I don’t know if that’s a great idea,” Launchpad drawls. He frowns at the wine as if it had somehow started this mess. As if an inanimate object was capable of seducing his lover off the path of the straight and narrow. “Maybe you should just take your pills now and put the wine away. We can use it for cooking instead.”

“I feel fine,” Drake insists. He’s digging around the junk drawer beside the fridge. Some paperclips tumble out and land silently on the floor, followed by a small notepad which makes a small slapping sound when it lands. “It's Thanksgiving and I want a drink. Are you going to join me or not?”

Wine was never Drake’s drink of choice. Or Launchpad’s, for that matter. Both of them enjoyed a cold beer after parole more than a room temperature glass of wine and Drake complained white wine, though served cold, was still too sweet for regular consumption. Wine, be it red, white, rosé, or sparkling, was something they drank at parties or while undercover or…on the holidays.

“Alright,” Launchpad agrees finally, seeing that he isn’t going to be talking Drake out of this decision, and it is the season. “Just a glass each.”

“Maybe two,” Drake reasons, teasingly. He’s humming a Christmas carole happily under his breath and his tail is wagging cutely behind him. “One now, one with dessert.”

“Okay, two.”

“Now where is that stupid bottle opener?”

Launchpad fetches it from the drawer with all the wooden spoons and whisks. Drake has turned the bottle around and is reading the description on the back. It’s a dark purple label very reminiscent of Drake's old Darkwing Duck costume which makes Launchpad feel vaguely uneasy, as if purple is that unique of a color. The damn wine is purple. Well, reddish-purple. Or purplish-red. Whatever.

“It’s a blend," Drake announces, his finger pressed against the label. "Syrah, Zinfandel, and Cabernet Sauvignon. Here, you open it, you’re better with a corkscrew. I’ll get the glasses.”

The sound of the wine pouring, the unique tinkling gurgle that reminds Launchpad of old black and white movies, is nostalgic in a dozen different ways. It seems right for the holiday. He raises the glass to drink from it when Drake hands him the wine but he’s already scolding him, telling him they need to toast first.

“To a new chapter in our lives,” Drake says, raising an identical but slightly fuller glass in the air.

“To a whole new book,” Launchpad adds, and lightly taps the glass against Drake’s. He’s always hated this tradition. Wine glasses are so thin, it feels like the slight knock against them will cause them to shatter. Maybe because Launchpad has always had an issue with his size. He always underestimates his own strength.

The wine feels dry on his tongue. Maybe it is an unusually dry variant, or maybe it’s just been too long since he’s tasted any. The second sip is juicier but his mouth still feels puckery inside. Kind of like when he drinks too much of that herbal tea Drake is always brewing. He licks the inside of his own mouth.

Drake sighs and swirls the wine in the glass, watching the legs appear and run down the sides. Then he holds up the glass to watch the overhead light shining through it.

“I feel like this area is wasted on us,” he confesses to Launchpad. “Gladys, that’s the one with the red hair since I know you can’t tell the difference, she was telling me that they picked the bottles up at a vineyard about two hours east of here. Apparently, there’s a cute little tourist area that way with some decent wineries. Themed like an old German fairy tale village. I had no idea.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think you’d be interested in wine tasting,” Launchpad says. Even if Drake could drink whenever he wished, he’s never shown that much interest in actually learning anything about wine. Neither of them knows the difference between a Syrah and a Zinfandel. Besides, wine tasting is expensive. If they had money to throw away on overpriced fermented grapes, they could buy a new heater. “I’ve seen the brochures at the post office in town. I can grab some next time I’m there if you want. They have some nice pictures in them. I think there's a fairy tale museum or something too.”

“Come sit down with me,” Drake replies, ignoring Launchpad’s offer outright. He's unsure if Drake was trying to ignore the subject or just wasn't paying attention. “In the chair. I just want to lounge on you right now like you were a big teddy bear.”

Drake’s chair is barely big enough for Launchpad alone, let alone with Drake on his lap. Their new-to-them used sofa sounds more alluring right now but he allows Drake to lead him to his armchair instead. Drake waits for Launchpad to sit down before draping himself into his lap. It surprises Launchpad that there is room for both of them at once but then again, the weight of his lover in his lap is feather-light now. His shoulders are so narrow. He used to be built like a linebacker. A thin one, but still.

He’s in a romantic mood today. He’s in a cuddly mood. He’s in just a good mood. And that’s worrying Launchpad because he doesn’t know how much of that has to do with his medication not being in his system right now. This isn’t the first time Drake has gone off them and last time he had crashed hard within a few days, falling into such a deep depression it had been difficult to get him to even wake up in the morning. Even Gosalyn’s words had done nothing to drag him out of it.

But just one day can’t do too much trouble. Even an addict can skip one day. Right?

He tastes like wine when they kiss. It tastes better in Drake’s mouth than straight from the glass and Launchpad thinks maybe that’s the way wine is supposed to be consumed, straight from your lover’s lips, and maybe that’s why everyone considers wine a drink associated with dates and romance. Otherwise, it tastes like crap. He crushes Drake against him, enjoying the softness of the sweater he had given him against his fingertips. He slides his hand up the back, feeling the warmth of his lower back against the palm of his hands. And then Drake is sliding off his lap and is down on his knees, and Launchpad is stunned because he can’t even pretend to remember the last time Drake did this. Before it all went bad, he knows, so nearly three years probably.

Launchpad holds Drake’s head between his hands, gently. Not forcing him or using him like some cheap sex toy but lovingly so he can stroke his cheeks and watch him because he just wants to touch him and the rest of him is too far away. Drake gags, he always does because his mouth is much too small for Launchpad’s size, and by the end, he’s sniffling because his eyes are watering, but he doesn’t stop until Launchpad has finished in his mouth. He downs it with a swig of red wine but some of both drip onto his chin and Launchpad laughs, commenting it looks like he has the world’s most perverse candy cane running down his face as he wipes at it.

“What did I do to deserve that?” He asks, genuinely curious. He thinks he should return the favor but Drake is showing no sign of arousal.

“Everything.”

Launchpad's brain is still too muddled to come up with a witty response. Drake climbs back onto his lap, kissing him again but now sweetly, almost chaste, until he decides that semen and wine clash terribly. Launchpad agrees with that statement because the little he gets from Drake's lips taste like chlorine soaked tobacco. He might skip out on the second glass.

“I’m going to go brush my teeth," Drake tells him. He's already stood up, putting him at eye level with Launchpad as he's still sitting in the chair.

“I gotta go finish making the squash,” Launchpad says, head swimming. He scrapes his fingers against the arm of the chair, not even realizing he's doing so. “You can set the table if you want?”

“I can do that,” Drake agrees, nodding. “Just give me a few. I'll be right back down.”

The squash only takes a few minutes to finish. The brie is easy – just pull it out of the fridge, set a knife beside it, and throw a handful of crackers on the plate. The green bean casserole is ready to come out of the oven but the turkey could probably use just a few more minutes. Launchpad stares down at the homemade cranberries, grimacing. He had been raised on the canned stuff himself and hadn’t even realized cranberries didn’t naturally grow in a jiggling, cylindrical mold until he was nearly in his thirties. He’s still not a big fan of the real stuff but Drake prefers it. Launchpad used to make it with Brandy, now he just uses orange juice. Drake says it tastes better with the orange juice anyway.

Speaking of which, where is Drake? Launchpad can’t start setting out the dishes until the table is set because he doesn’t know where the plates will be. Launchpad knows he could just set the table himself, it’s just the two of them and they’re not using fancy salad forks or any of that stuff Mrs. B would set out at her fancy dinner parties, but Drake said he would do it and Launchpad doesn’t want to demean his progress by implying he was unable to complete such a simple task. The doctor said it's good to allow Drake to take his time and figure out what he can do but not to force anything. If Drake thinks he can do something then Launchpad knows he can. 

Launchpad stands in the kitchen for a couple more minutes, listening to the CD in the radio cycle back to the first song on it, and still, Drake has not come back to the kitchen. He turns to check on the turkey, considers if he should baste it once more, then decides against it and pulls it out instead. Give it a couple of minutes to cool before cutting into it, maybe. Another minute ticks by as Launchpad looks at the clock, then another. The song ends, and another starts.

_If you hate the taste of wine, why do you drink it ‘til you’re blind?_

Launchpad can taste the puckery dryness in his mouth once more.

“Drake,” Launchpad says, finally, calling quietly at first, then louder as he walks out to the living room. His voice echoes up the stairs. “Drake, food’s done.”

No response. Launchpad starts up the stairs. They creak beneath his weight. The further he ascends, the colder the air is. Isn't heat supposed to rise?

“Drake? Babe?”

The bedroom is empty. So is the bathroom. And the other bathroom. And Gosalyn’s room. It feels especially cold in Gosalyn’s room. They always keep the door closed to preserve the heat. It feels unlived in which is not inaccurate.

He wouldn’t have gone into the attic, would he?

Launchpad goes to the end of the hallway and looks up at the ceiling where the pull-down staircase is locked away but the little metal padlock is still in place, closed shut. No way Drake could have gotten up there then locked the door after himself. Not unless he was using magic. Or a ghost locked it for him.

“Drake, are you up here?” Launchpad calls, turning to look back down the short hallway, half expecting to see a spectre waiting at the end of it for him.

Neither his lover nor a ghost appears. Drake isn't up here. Unless he had been hiding in Gosalyn’s closet, Launchpad has checked the entire floor.

Was he downstairs? In the half bathroom downstairs? Or the guestroom? But why would he be? They never go into those rooms. The half bathroom doesn’t even have running water. Well, it does, but it comes out orange and they don’t have the money to replace the piping right now. Launchpad supposes he may have gone into the guestroom to look through one of their still packed boxes from the apartment but he can't imagine what he would be looking for in there. 

The fear in Launchpad’s throat is as big and difficult to swallow as a tennis ball when he checks the guestroom and the bathroom and they’re both empty. He’s gone. He’s missing. He’s grabbing his jacket, running on autopilot more than anything, and opening the door and the lawn is empty and Launchpad doesn’t know where he’s gotten to and this is the first time he hasn’t been able to find him since-

Since that night.

* * *

“I think we should stick together, DW.”

“Keep your voice down," Drake hisses, tugging at Launchpad's tie so he can pull him down to his height and speak directly into his ear. "And don’t be ridiculous, what if one of them sneaks out the rear? I’ll go in the front, you take the back door.”

“But what if-” Launchpad starts to object.

“Who’s the superhero here and who’s the sidekick?” Darkwing demands to know. Even in the dim glow of the half-broken street lights far overhead Launchpad recognizes the grin on his fiancée’s face. The thrill of the hunt. There’s a dangerous sparkle in his eye. A predatory glint to his teeth. He’s going to be riding high tonight. Normally, that grin is such a turn on that Launchpad has to fight his hardest not to just grab him and ravage him wherever they are. Tonight, something feels off.

“Alright,” Launchpad agrees, ignoring the tickling sensation at the back of his head, gnawing at him like a barely venomous spider. A slight shiver goes down his spine and he resists the shudder that wishes to accompany it. “Call me if you find them.”

“Of course," Darkwing agrees, all ego and bravado. He releases the hold on Launchpad's tie, leaving it rumpled. "What kind of hero fights without their sidekick at his side?”

Launchpad set himself up immediately outside the back door and waits, fists up and ready in case he needs to take somebody out the moment the door swings open. He keeps his communication watch turned towards him so that he can see it with his arms raised. If it lights up he will know Darkwing is trying to contact him before he can even get a single word out. This is his prime fighting position, doubly alert, as long as nobody comes from the back anyway.

Nobody does.

Nor do they come through the door.

And no alert comes through the watch.

At first, Launchpad only feels the familiar sense of excitement. The thrill of kicking ass and doing good. Then the excitement starts to fade as the worry begins to slowly spread from his spine into his lower back and shoulders. Then the panic sets in. The uncertainness. Should he just go in? Darkwing told him to wait out here. He always does what Darkwing tells him to do. Should he try to contact him on the watch? What if he gives away his position? Even a text will light up the screen and give him away in the dark. What if he’s hiding in some tight spot away from the bad guys? What if he’s listening in a dark corner?

He waits much, much too long. Always a loyal partner, he waits and waits and obeys Darkwing’s command like a good sidekick is supposed to until he just knows that something is wrong. He’s a good sidekick but he’s a better fiancée and he can’t just stand here and wait forever.

He breaks through the door first with one hard charge with his shoulder. If somebody does have Drake cornered or tied up they already know they’re here so giving away his own presence isn’t a big deal. They may even have already been watching him on a security camera outside somewhere. If Drake is still hiding somewhere then he’ll just serve as a distraction so that Drake can escape, maybe ambush them from behind. 

Launchpad expects to be met by somebody. Hell, a lot of somebodies. Maybe an entire gang of bad guys ready with guns and knives and maybe swords like that one gang they fought that one time on the corner of Eastman and Laird.

But there is no one.

The warehouse is dead silent and completely dark inside. Besides a few blinking green lights on some machinery he doesn’t recognize, it is as black as a starless night in the building. His voice echoes through the stillness and even before he turns on the lights, Launchpad knows nobody is in here. Not anymore, anyway. It has the echoing silence of a recently vacated building. The kind of emptiness where you can almost feel the breeze they left behind, smell their scent, even though neither is actually present. It may have been seconds or minutes but somebody had been in here but now they aren’t. He calls out anyway, in vain. His own voice, bouncing back in the empty air, is his only answer.

Only then does he try the watch.

“Launchpad to Darkwing Duck, are you there? Launchpad to Darkwing Duck.” The screen is fuzzy in the darkness; splashes of gray, brown, dark purple.

“What’s that? Oh, that idiot sidekick of yours.” It’s only two sentences but Launchpad recognizes that voice on the first word. It’s the voice of his childhood. Of everything that used to symbolize braveness and justice and righteousness. The voice of his former hero. Jim Starling. Negaduck. “Let me have that pretty little watch of yours.”

For a second, Launchpad sees the white moon glowing off what appears to be black cement before he realizes, no, not cement. Water. He’s still by the docks. The watches are waterproof but it doesn’t matter. Launchpad sees nothing but darkness as the camera falls to the bottom of the ocean. He hears nothing but the initial splash.

He runs through the front door of the warehouse, the one Drake must have entered through and then exited through. The Ratcatcher is still parked in front of the building. He considers jumping onto it, driving as quickly as he can in hopes of catching up to Negaduck, but he has no idea where he went and decides it is better if he can listen for him instead.

He wants to call for Drake.

He thinks about calling for Drake.

Maybe Drake will hear him and yell back. Even if he’s gagged, Launchpad might catch his muffled cries.

But what if Drake is unconscious? What if yelling just alerts Negaduck of his presence and he hides and waits until Launchpad passes? There are so many warehouses along the dock. So many places to hide. So many nooks and crannies and boats and trucks and boxes.

He opens his mouth to yell for him. He closes his mouth. He starts to stride towards his left, then he turns and sprints towards the Ratcatcher, then he turns around and starts back towards the left once more.

He has no idea where Negaduck is. He has no idea how to catch up with him. He doesn’t even know how long it’s been since he captured Darkwing. Why did Launchpad just stand outside and wait like that for so long? It’s just a warehouse. It wasn’t like Drake had been breaking into a labyrinth that could take hours to traverse. He should have taken two, three minutes tops. And how long did Launchpad wait? Fifteen minutes? Twenty?

Launchpad grabs at his hat, smashing it down onto his head. Then he’s screaming Drake’s name before he can help himself. He covers his mouth, shocked at the noise that escaped before he could stop himself, and he feels tears on his fingers. His watch lights up. Launchpad swallows a bubble of air and his throat burns. Stupidly optimistic for just a moment, knowing he is hoping for the impossible. Does he think Drake jumped into the water after his stupid watch?

He doesn’t know why it lit up. It’s still nothing but blackness on the screen. Maybe a fish touched it or it brushed against the sand on the ocean floor. The lights dim again but Launchpad knows he can’t do this on his own so he touches the screen and scrolls through quickly, looking for another contact on the watch.

“Fenton,” he gets out, not realizing how bad this situation is until he hears his own voice sobbing hysterically, “He’s taken Drake, I need help.”

“Who?” Fenton’s face looks back at him. He’s home in bed by the look of it. Launchpad probably just woke him out of a sound sleep. His hair is rumpled, eyes fuzzy. The bedstand directly behind him is made of ornately carved wood. “Who took Drake?” 

Another voice is speaking in the background but Fenton shushes and the voice stops.

“Negaduck,” Launchpad gets out, “It was just supposed to be a drug bust, we never thought… It’s been nearly a year since we last saw him? It must have, I think it was a trap.”

“I’ll be right there,” Fenton says. The screen blurs as Fenton moves, climbing out of bed, and then it goes dark. He won’t really be right here though. He’s in Duckburg and they’re in St. Canard. Why did Launchpad call him of all people? There must be somebody closer to help him but who? Gosalyn? He doesn’t want to worry her, and what can she do that he can’t at this point?

By the time Gizmoduck arrives, Launchpad has jerked the Ratcatcher around so many sharp corners the tires are starting to wear. The smell of burning rubber is uncomfortably strong. They retrieve the communicator watch from the water using Gizmoduck’s GPS tracking. It’s already been carried out to the ocean a couple of dozen feet. The superhero tells him it probably was dropped into the sea up north about thirty feet, maybe by one of the boat docks.

“We’ll find him,” he assures Launchpad. He doesn’t sound like Gizmoduck, he sounds like Fenton. Launchpad finds that more reassuring because Fenton is smart. He knows this stuff. If Fenton says it, then it must be true. Launchpad still has no idea what to do. He's not used to being the one in charge of anything. He and Darkwing are more like partners than actually superhero and sidekick but he's still used to following Drake's lead, just adding his own input when he thinks he may be helpful. He's glad when Fenton takes charge of the situation.

Gizmoduck call the cops to inform them of the situation. It's better received from a superhero like him than if it had come from a nobody like Launchpad. They promise to send a team. Then Fenton calls everyone in Duckburg who he thinks maybe be of help - Scrooge, Della, Penny, Huey. Gyro already is aware of the situation but Fenton asks him to join him in Duckburg. Launchpad calls Morgana before he calls Gosalyn and that feels unfair to Gosalyn. If anybody, she should have been the first to know her father is missing, not the last. But Morgana is usually able to hone in on Drake’s spirit if he’s nearby so having her come immediately, before he’s too far away, is essential. Once she says she’s on her way, Launchpad takes a deep breath and presses the contact for Gosalyn.

Gosalyn doesn't see the big deal at first. They're always getting themselves tied up and captured. Not until he explains that they have no idea where he is and that everyone is coming to try to help does she start to cry. Her voice sounds unnaturally fragile. She hasn't sounded so broken since she was a little girl. Launchpad doesn’t usually like her driving his car since it has too much torque for a teenage girl but when she asks if she can drive over since all the busses have stopped running for the night he isn’t going to tell her no. He waits for her where he said he’d wait for Morgana, a small twenty-four-hour diner right at the front of the pier.

“We’ll find him,” Launchpad assures her, relieved to have somebody to wrap his arms around. She’s still a slip of a thing, tomboyish without the curves of most girls her age, but she holds him when he breaks down crying in her arms. She strokes his hair and for a moment it feels like their roles have been reversed but her tears are dripping into his hair and down his forehead.

Morgana says she can’t find his presence.

“He must have taken him somewhere already. Somewhere far. I'm not even getting any faint whisps.”

Gyro uses one of his fancy machines to try to find his prints using some new scientific heat sourcing technology or something but he says the area has already seen too much traffic. Penny looks for tracks in the sand and then the dirt. She rips open the door of every warehouse and turns over barrels and trashcans alike. Huey looks through his guidebook that he still keeps under his hat and is still looking two hours later, shrugging sadly when Launchpad asks him if he has any ideas. "There is no foil a kidnapper badge."

The sun rises much too soon and everybody shuffles into the café for caffeine and someplace warm to sit and go over ideas. Launchpad just sits there, numb, holding Gosalyn’s hand and staring into his untouched coffee. At noon, Gosalyn drives him home and tucks him into bed, telling him he hasn’t slept in over twenty-four hours and he needs to sleep.

He doesn’t sleep. He tosses and turns and suddenly it’s dark out again. Drake is still missing. He cries into his pillow until his head hurts.

They continue to search. A day passes. Then another day. A week. Two weeks. A month. The trail is more than cool, it is ice cold.

Scrooge asks him, quietly, if he’s thought about what kind of service he thinks Drake would have liked.

* * *

The air is as cold and bleak and gray as that morning on the dock. The mist of rain moving in feels like the mist of the sea on his face.

Launchpad is sobbing now.

“Drake, Drake, where are you? Drake!”

“Launchpad, I’m right here!”

And he is here. Still wearing his soft sweater as well as a pair of slip-on shoes. Those hideous orange crocs he used to wear out onto their balcony at the apartment. He’s appeared around the corner of the shack that’s still full of old planting equipment from the previous owner because Launchpad has been too scared of black widows to set foot into it. His arms are full of something large and brown which he drops onto the dead grass when Launchpad latches onto him, holding him tight.

“I…I just went to get some pinecones from the edge of the woods,” Drake says, startled. “I thought they’d look nice in that wicker basket that Fenton gave us last Christmas. As a centerpiece for the table.”

“I couldn’t find you, I thought, I thought-”

“I’m sorry,” Drake says, his arms going around Launchpad as well. “I was only out here for a couple of minutes, I didn’t think… I should have told you, I’m sorry. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“No, no,” Launchpad says, pulling back. He’s wiping at his eyes and his hands aren’t coming back damp but absolutely soaked. “I’m glad you wanted to surprise me. I just, I thought. I couldn’t live through that again.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Drake assures, reaching out once more. “I promise, I’m not going anywhere ever again.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to specify that Gosalyn in this fic is based a bit more off the original that the new one. I like to imagine her and Drake having found each other when she was younger than in the 2017 version just because they’d have more time to form a father/daughter bond and one where Drake was more of an authority figure over her. I have trouble imagine 2017 Gosalyn getting grounded for not cleaning her room or obeying either Drake or Launchpad when they tell her to not do something. Not sure which version of her background and the Ramrod story I’m going with, but it probably doesn’t matter.

It’s one of those still winter mornings where getting out of bed sounds like more of a helpful suggestion than an outright requirement. The sky outside is gray-white, the windows are frosted over, and the bedroom is dim enough that Launchpad is able to ignore the fact that it is indeed daylight outside by pulling the comforter over his head and closing his eyes. The room is chilly, but the bed is warm. The sheets are warm, and the blankets are warm, and the overly-numerous pillows are warm, and Drake is warm where he lies in Launchpad’s arms like an oversized hot water bottle. Launchpad nuzzles his forehead into Drake’s back, ready to fall back asleep again for another hour or two. His fingers dig into the worn fabric of the shirt covering Drake’s stomach and he thinks to himself how nice it is just to hold him like this.

“It’s snowing out.”

“Mmm?”

“Snow. First one of the year,” Drake is whispering as if the snow would hear him and stop coming down if it realized it was being watched. As if he had control of the weather itself. “Don’t you want to see?”

Launchpad pulls the blanket down under his chin and looks out the window. Sure enough, there’s a steady white curtain of snowflakes falling past the window panes. The flakes are big and look soft and fluffy. Too fluffy for the first snow of the year, really, which Launchpad usually remembers as being more sleet-like back in the city. Perhaps it had something to do with the salt of the bay. Or the warm air currents the ocean would sometimes bring in with its waves. Launchpad likes how the snow looks here. It’s cleaner looking, like fresh cotton.

“I thought it felt particularly cold this morning,” Launchpad says. He pulls Drake closer against him, dragging the blanket up so it covers one of Drake’s exposed shoulder. He wore one of Launchpad’s old t-shirts to bed last night and it hangs off him like a circus tent. It didn’t use to. Or not so bad, anyway, when Drake had been broader across the shoulders. “You want waffles for breakfast? No, crepes, with powdered sugar on top for the first snow of the year.”

“Sounds good,” Drake agrees. Launchpad feels the routine morning tightness in his chest relax because it seems like they’re going to have another okayish day. It’s always a bad sign if Drake’s not in the mood to eat in the morning. On those days, even getting just a piece of toast inside him so he can take his medication without getting sick is a chore. But today isn’t one of those days and it’s nice to have an excuse to cook something a little fancy this morning. He’ll make some of that fruit compote that Drake likes to spread on his crepes, when he finds the motivation to find his way downstairs, anyway.

Neither of them has ever been the type to just sit up and roll out of bed. Not unless they have a reason to do so. It had been Drake’s sole responsibility to get up early to drive Gosalyn to school when she had been young, Launchpad long gone after a night on the city, back to his real job in Duckburg. By the time she was in her early teens, Launchpad had moved in and it had turned into an ongoing, sleep-deprived quarrel over whose turn it was to drop her off. Drake's morning temperament usually ensured he won those arguments. Drake is in no way, shape, or form what one would call a morning person.

So it surprises Launchpad to see Drake already swinging his legs over the side of the mattress, reaching for his slippers to shield his feet against the frigid floorboards. The rubbery bottoms of the slippers scuffle across the floor.

“Wait,” Launchpad objects, pulling himself up onto one elbow. His arm is asleep from where Drake had been lying on it and he nearly loses his balance, thrown off by the tingling sensation in his arm. “Come back to bed. I’ll go stoke up the fire and warm it up in here first.”

“Let me do it this morning,” Drake says, already pulling his bathrobe on now. It’s long enough to cover his legs, a luxury that Launchpad is never afforded with his own robe that barely covers the top of his thighs. Drake turns to look down at him as he cinches the garment tight around his waist.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Drake replies. He bends down to give Launchpad a quick kiss on the lips. “I need to use the bathroom anyway.”

Launchpad falls back onto the sheets, pulling the blanket back up to his neck. Drake finished up in the bathroom and pads down the stairs. He hears the familiar metallic squeak of the flue being cranked. It’ll be at least twenty minutes until it warms up down there, he reasons as he closes his eyes, so it’s okay to just lie here for a few more minutes.

Except when he opens his eyes again there is a muted sunlight streaming through the windows that wasn’t there before and the frost is starting to melt from the windows. He reaches for his phone, which he always falls asleep with on his chest, and only finds the cold outer-portion of the duvet, the swirling thread pattern rough under his fingertips. Right, no phone. No internet. It’s funny how you fall into old patterns when you’re half-asleep. Instead, he looks towards the clock on Drake’s side of the bed and finds an hour has passed since Drake disappeared downstairs. He sits up in a hurry and hastily grabs for his own slippers. He was supposed to be cooking already. Hell, he’s supposed to be done cooking.

The living room is already toasty, the fire a little too high but that shouldn’t be an issue as long as no more logs are added for a while. Launchpad glances around, wondering where Drake got to when he hears a familiar whacking sound outdoors.

“Are you cutting wood?” Launchpad calls to Drake from the front porch, but it’s a stupid question because he can see that’s what Drake is doing. He’s standing by the woodpile not far from the front door, using the ax to split the large, round logs in half.

“Yeah,” Drake calls back, glancing towards Launchpad. He rubs at his face. His nose is running in the cold. It’s still snowing out, despite the dim sun now peeking through the cloud, and the snow has frosted the top of Drake’s hat as if he were a giant beignet. But there is no wind today and it only feels a few degrees below freezing. “I brought the last of it inside, so I figured we needed some more. Almost done, I’ll be in, in just a minute.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Launchpad says, stepping off the porch. He pulls his jacket tighter around himself. The ground is dusted with snow, but the dead brown grass stands out easily, crunching satisfyingly beneath his steps. “I was going to chop it later.”

“I figured the exercise would be good for me,” Drake replies, his voice somehow a combination of both calm and labored at the same time. It reminds Launchpad of how he used to sound after chasing down a bad guy. It’s strange how normalcy can arise from a situation that is so wholly abnormal once you become accustomed to it. Since when is chasing villains more normal than chopping wood? “You know, get the heartbeat pumping, maybe build up some of my upper body strength.”

“You sure?” Launchpad asks, standing close but not too close because he doesn’t know how talented Drake is with an ax. Judging by the pile of split logs stacked up to the side he’s doing a decent job but Drake has always been the type to keep soldiering on through any task, no matter how many times he fails at first. Well, he used to be, anyway.

“I can’t just sit around doing nothing for the rest of my life.”

And how does Launchpad even reply to such a statement? He doesn’t want to correct his lover and just be like “Sure you can,” that sounds vaguely insulting. While it is true that Drake hasn’t been doing much lately, he hasn’t been doing nothing. Reading counts as something. And playing cards. And last week they put together an old jigsaw puzzle they found in the attic. On the other hand, agreeing with the statement, saying that he does need to do something, is just as bad. Either way, it would sound like he is implying that Drake really is just hanging around uselessly. So, he just nods and says he’ll go get the late breakfast started.

Drake’s cheeks are pink when he enters the kitchen. He’s removed his coat and boots but is still wearing a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt with an old 90s band logo on the front. He looks cute. Launchpad tells him so when he kisses him on the top of his head, the feathers ruffled with static from the hat he had been wearing. Drake goes to wash his hand at the kitchen sink and slathers some lotion on afterward. Launchpad worries about potential blisters from the manual labor but bites his lip before saying anything. He doesn’t want to discourage Drake’s efforts. Maybe just remind him to slip on a pair of work gloves next time. If there is a next time.

“Do you feel like going anywhere?” Launchpad asks once they’re both sitting down to the crepes. He’s covered his own with only the powdered sugar, but Drake first spread the blueberry compote Launchpad had prepared over his before sprinkling it with the powder. “I was thinking of going into town today if you want to come along.”

“To town?” Drake asks. He frowns, pushing the small bowl of sugar away from him. “I, uh, no. I don’t want to.”

He avoids Launchpad’s eyes then, turning towards the crepes. He’s cutting the crepes too zealously for a thin piece of dough and some of the reduction splatters onto the table. His shoulders are tense beneath the gray sweatshirt.

“Hey. There’s nothing in town that can hurt you,” Launchpad assures him, reaching over to touch his hand from across the table. He’s trying to hold it but Drake gives him no help in doing so. “It’s less than four thousand people. There’s no reason for anything bad to come here. They do an open mic night at this café by the library. We could go to the library then stop by for a coffee and listen to some live music?”

“No,” Drake repeats, pulling his hand away harshly. He slides his chair back with a jarring scraping sound, preparing to leave the table, and now Launchpad feels like shit for pushing him. But he was doing so well! Too well, maybe, because Launchpad knows better than this. He knows better than to try to make Drake do anything that could cause him discomfort, like being around other people. That’s the entire point of them moving here, isn’t it? So Drake doesn’t have to deal with people?

“I’m sorry,” Launchpad blurts out, jumping out of his chair. It tumbles back, toppling behind him, landing on the floor with a loud clatter that makes them both jump. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to come with me, please just sit down and eat breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry,” Drake grumbles. “I’m going to go read for a while.”

He doesn’t say it, but Launchpad hears the silent “leave me alone” at the end. He stands where he is, watching Drake walk back out in the living room, but then he hears his feet slapping against the stairs and knows he’s going back to bed. Probably for the rest of the day, if past experience had taught Launchpad anything. He waits until he hears the door shut upstairs before picking up the chair and setting it back on its legs. Slumping down into it, he pushes his own breakfast away, his appetite gone.

“Why do I always do this,” he groans quietly to himself, covering his face with his hands. His elbows dig into the table, pinching the thin skin along the bone. He barely notices with the way his arms are shaking.

This, all of this, it’s so hard sometimes. It feels like an insurmountable mountain they both need to climb, and they’ve just been climbing and climbing for almost three years now. Except whenever they make a few steps forward, Launchpad is always looking backward to see Drake has slipped back down to where they started. He’s always leaving him behind.

He doesn’t want to leave Drake behind. Drake is…Drake is his everything. He’s the love of his life. Not his first love, maybe, but his biggest love. The one that lasted. The one that means something. His partner in everything. The only other person he ever met that cares about the things he cares about in the way he cares about them. The first person he ever met who would binge watch the original Darkwing Duck series with him over one weekend and play out Darkwing scenarios with him with his old action figures. The only one who preferred dates at theme parks and burger joints over fancy sit down restaurants and movie theatres. He was the first one who laughed at all his jokes and complimented his cooking and told him he was smart and came to him for advice.

Nobody, no adults at least, had ever asked Launchpad for advice before. Nobody trusted his advice. They always thought he was too stupid to have any true insight. And maybe he was a little too optimistic at times. Age and trauma have changed that, they have changed him. They have changed both of them. Maybe at times for the better but Launchpad would do anything to go back in time to when things were simpler.

Sometimes, Launchpad just lies in bed at night, listening to Drake toss and turn. He cries in his sleep most night. He even talks in his sleep on occasion. And Launchpad lies there, listening to him whimpering and he replays those words over and over again in his head, biting his lip as he blinks back the tears that threaten to spill down his cheeks and dampen the pillow beneath his head. Drake had never asked for his advice that day. Launchpad had given it to him without request. Hell, he hadn’t even suggested it, he had all but told him to do it.

_“You know, you could do this for real.”_

Why did he ever suggest something so stupid? Was it because even back then, when they had barely even met, he had been harboring some hidden attraction toward Drake? Had he wanted Drake to be Darkwing Duck because of how much he already adored the superhero? Darkwing was just a fictional character. Even when Drake had taken on the persona, when Darkwing had become real, he had still been a fictional character. Behind it all was just Drake the whole time. Handsome, sweet, funny, smart, talented Drake with his endearing smile and stupidly optimistic view of the world and everybody in it.

When they had first met, Drake had the entire world laid out in front of him. His acting career was just starting to take off. He had graduated from stunt work to legitimate acting gigs. There had been an agent for the first few months, prodding at Drake, reminding him of his contract, suggesting commercials and bit parts in a few hit primetime shows that may have sprung him into stardom. But instead, he had gone out every night with Launchpad at his side and he would show up the next morning for a gig with a black eye or a bruised lip and be fired on the spot because “makeup can’t do anything with you in this condition.”

Yet he never said anything accusatory towards Launchpad about it. He never blamed anything on him. Not the loss of his career, not the money troubles, not the physical pain he always endured through. And back then, Launchpad had never thought about it either, because all the trouble was worth it for the reward of being a real superhero.

_“It's one thing to play a hero. And it's another thing to actually be a hero.”_

Another unwanted opinion on his part. It had been a noble sentiment at the time, idealistic. There had been no thought about the number of times Launchpad would have to stitch up Drake in the tower or how often he would have to pop his arm back into its joint. No thought of all the tetanus shots or dental work from chipped teeth or casts for his broken bones. Just righteous glory and rose-tinted glasses.

Launchpad would still love Drake if he had only played a hero. He would love him if he worked at a fast-food joint flipping burgers. He loves him for who he is, not what he does, and nothing can change that. Things would certainly have been easier with an actor-husband. They may have had their own mansion in Duckburg by now if Drake’s career had taken off. They may have had more kids. Another dream that Launchpad had forced Drake to set aside because what possible surrogate or adoption agency would consider two barely employed men living together in an economy apartment as worthy parents?

Of course, there is no promise that Drake would have kept him around if things had gone right for him. What would Launchpad be to a famous movie star? Just some lowly, poor, uneducated chauffeur? Drake is conventionally handsome in the way pretty boy actors are. If he had just gotten the right role he might have been a world-renowned heartthrob, sought after by women and men alike. Launchpad would never have been able to compete with that. They could have gone on with their separate lives and maybe Launchpad would see him in the occasional movie and point him out to whoever he was dating at the time and be like “I met him once before he made it big, he’s a nice guy.” And maybe Drake would have forgotten about him entirely because Launchpad had just been some guy he met once on the set of a canceled movie and he would have a wife of his own and biological children and Gosalyn, well, Gosalyn…

Launchpad lets his arms fall back onto the table. His fork is still lying where he dropped it and he picks it up, his fingers trembling. The crepes have gone cold and his stomach feels as if he chugged an entire bottle of glue but it feels wrong to waste them. He picks at them, bringing one forkful to his mouth but he chews at it very slowly. It’s like eating paper mache, gooey and thick and flavorless on his tongue. Except he knows it isn’t really. Crepes are delicious and he knows how to flip a good crepe.

Crepes were Gosalyn’s favorite as a kid. Launchpad had learned to make them just for her because Drake is, frankly, a horrible cook. Once she started high school she had started complaining about carbs and hidden calories and had requested egg white omelets instead which almost seemed like an insult to the meal known as breakfast. But Launchpad had done as she wished and started making egg white omelets instead of crepes or pancakes and bacon or waffles, and Drake had complained, saying they needed more calories after being out all night on the prowl. But to be honest, they were getting older by then, and changing up their diet to be a bit healthier probably wasn’t a bad call. He had always added extra cheese into Drake’s omelet for him to make the meal more palatable.

Launchpad can’t recall the last time he made an egg white omelet. The last time Gosalyn had been home, at their former apartment just this past summer, she had cooked her own breakfasts. Even though she was out of school for the summer she had still had training for the girl’s hockey team nearly every morning and was usually gone before her fathers were even awake. Launchpad sighs at the sight of his mutilated crepes and sets the fork back down, conceding their victory over his resolve. Poor Gosalyn. All those years of hockey practice and now her own family isn’t there to cheer her on at her games. She mentioned the boyfriend had been recording the games with an actual video camera. He hopes she brings the videos along.

The boyfriend on the other hand…

She’s been closed-lip when asked about him. It makes Drake anxious because he assumes the worse – probably some hoodlum with a lime-green mohawk and twelve facial piercings and a throat tattoo of a snake. Whether or not said boyfriend will be accompanying her home over winter break is spotty. She keeps mumbling something about “prior obligations” and “waiting on results” which really is more than ominous sounding.

Launchpad stands up and scrapes both their plates into the trash. It’s wasteful but cold crepes are just not worth it and re-serving the same crepes to Drake later would just remind him of the fight. Crepes will be off the menu for a few weeks, probably. At least until Gosalyn is home and Launchpad can link the food to more pleasant memories once more. He washes the few dishes from breakfast and leaves them to airdry.

Now there is nothing to do though. The wood is cut. Breakfast is over. Drake is gone. There are about twenty minutes where Launchpad tries to sit down on the couch and read one of Drake’s old books but reading is difficult for him at the best of times and right now his mind is racing. He goes upstairs instead, being careful to walk as quietly as he can pass their bedroom door. He’ll give Drake a few hours before he brings him something small to eat and a cup of hot tea to wash down his medication. Drake probably won’t feel up to talking by then but maybe if he talks very gently to him he can convince him to read out loud for awhile.

For now, though, his destination is another floor up. He treads to the end of the hallway and unlocks the latch to the attic door, pulling down the stairs.

It’s freezing inside as he enters. There is almost no insulation in this part of the house and Launchpad has a feeling it may be colder in here than it was outside – no windows for the sun to get through after all. His recent project has been to rifle through all the junk left up here from the house’s old inhabitants but it has been slow-going. There is so much stuff up here and so many old boxes. It’s amazing what you can learn from going through people’s old junk. Judging from the age of some of the pictures and old clothing that had been packed away up here, Launchpad is betting the former owners either passed away or were admitted to some sort of care facility. The real estate people never said anything about them, other than the fact they had enjoyed gardening. But they had both gotten the feeling the house had belonged to an old couple. It was like walking into a grandparent’s house and being greeted with the old people smell except there had been no particular smell except that of old paint and even older wood.

He goes back to the large pile of boxes he’s been working through for awhile in the northwest corner. More stuff for the antique shop on State Street. Women’s clothing. Launchpad would say from the 60s or 70s, holding up one of the dresses to inspect it. He doesn’t know much about clothing, especially women’s clothing, but old clothes always seem to be made of stiffer material than modern clothes. No give. Probably good in its own way, the owners wouldn’t have had to worry about their clothes getting stretched out on the clothesline. But at the same time they afford no room for change – weight gain, weight loss, changing muscles.

He sets the box aside and picks up the next one in the pile. Scrawled across the top is the word TOYS.

“Ah, neat.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random fact: Title is from Counting Sheep by Conor Oberst:  
> But I don't want to seem greedy, I'm generous  
> I'm just trying to be pleasing to everyone, including you  
> Tomorrow is shining like a razor blade  
> And anything's possible if you feel the same  
> Early to bed, early to rise  
> Acting my age, waiting to die

Early December isn’t going well. After a productive November, Launchpad had been hoping the rest of the holiday season would be a breeze, but Drake’s progress seems to have vanished following Thanksgiving. Dr. Lavendar suggests that they bump their biweekly appointments up to weekly ones, something she has been suggesting since their first meeting, but Drake refuses so she ups his drug doses instead.

“There’s only so much that I can do with medication however, it really would be preferable if we-”

“Come on Launchpad, it’s starting to snow. Let’s get home before the roads get bad.”

There are still some good days though. And there are some bad ones. Maybe it’s the early nights getting to them both. Maybe they should invest in one of those lamps that are supposed to mimic sunlight.

The days pass somehow too fast and too slow at the same time. Each day feels like a week but each week feels like it's only three days long. When Drake is having a good day they do some puzzles together and Drake reads more of the book about the guy from Mars to him. One evening they even cook together, Drake taking over the duty of chopping up all the vegetables as Launchpad adds them to the pan.

On bad days, Drake reads. Sometimes in his chair, sometimes in bed. On very bad days he doesn’t read.

Launchpad drags out the Christmas decorations from the spare bedroom and starts decorating on his own. He won’t do the tree until Gos comes home but all the lights make it feel cozier inside. Drake says the garland is gaudy but he's been saying that for the past six years. Launchpad sets up the Menorah near the front door, next to the window that faces the road. It’s the fanciest Menorah he has ever seen in person, a gift from Scrooge years ago. Pure gold with lots of intricate carvings on the base. There are small red jewels set into the gold in an elaborate tree-like pattern. They could probably sell it and buy a whole new house with a working heater but Launchpad cannot imagine ever selling a present from somebody.

They’re a strange household in so many ways. Besides the whole superhero thing. Not exactly the ideal nuclear family, Launchpad supposes, but they always made it work. Gosalyn’s grandfather had never instilled any particularly strong religious beliefs in her but she had been baptized by her birth parents and still holds onto a small silver crucifix necklace strung on a delicate chain that no longer fits around her throat. Drake came from a classical WASP family though he had been raised without any religion to speak of, besides celebrating the usual holidays – namely Christmas and Easter. Launchpad had been raised by his devoutly Jewish family but had mostly let go of the stricter practices. If God existed, Launchpad didn’t think he would mind them eating cheeseburgers.

But the social service people had urged them to raise Gosalyn with some sort of religion because it “would be good for her.” At that point, her adoption had already been on this ice, what with the less than perfect living conditions and all, so they had given her the choice to work either towards her confirmation or her bat mitzvah when she turned eleven. She chose the bat mitzvah because “we live right across the street from a synagogue, this way we don’t have to go halfway across the city to the church.”

To be honest, the entire affair had filled Launchpad with a deep sense of paternal pride. He hadn’t even realized his Jewish heritage had been that important to him until he was spending those evenings going over the Torah together with Gosalyn in his lap. She recognized some of the stories from her grandfather.

“He never told me they were religious stories, I just thought they were fairy tales.”

Drake mostly left them alone during this time. He was proud of her, of both of them, but he didn’t have much to add to the conversation besides the occasional quip. “I believed that Jesus was Santa’s secret identity until I was twelve.”

Santa still kept visiting their house every year. Santa visited their house until the year _it_ happened. That isn’t to say that Gosalyn doesn’t still receive gifts from her fathers but Drake hasn’t been in the mood to go through all the motions since then. No fake snow footprints made out of flour or reindeer droppings of cocoa puffs. No cookies left out when there is nobody there to bite them.

Launchpad takes out the Elf on the Shelf from the box and looks at the creepy little doll. For some reason, the look of it has always reminded him of Paddywack and he hated being left alone in a room with it. It’s one tradition he doesn’t miss, he thinks to himself as he shoves it back into the bottom of the tree decoration box.

Their neighbors stop by again a couple of days later. No wine this time, thankfully. Launchpad is still going through the Pinot Grigio, using it as a cooking wine. They bring homemade cookies instead. He invites them inside. The Christmas decorations have helped, some, and Drake has at least put some clothes on today, even though he’s not the most talkative he’s ever been.

“We saw the lights from the street when we were driving by last night,” the red-haired one says, and Launchpad still can’t remember their damn names, and he truly does feel awful about it because they’re like the perfect lesbian grandmothers he wishes he would have had as a kid. “You did a beautiful job on them. No tree yet though?”

“We’re waiting for our daughter to come home from school,” Drake explains. He’s brought them cups of tea and they’re sitting at the table, talking and playing cards, and it feels oddly more homey than when it’s just the two of them. There's a roast in the oven and the kitchen is warm. Launchpad opens up the tin of cookies they brought along so they can share them. “She only has a little over a week left until the semester ends.”

“We’d like to get a real tree this year,” Launchpad says, holding his own tea but not drinking it. He just ate a peanut butter cookie and the syrupy sweetness feels like it's stuck in his throat. He wants a glass of water instead. “We always had the fake ones in the city because they were too much of a hassle to transport and drag up the stairs. This will be our first real one. Any suggestion on where to pick one up?”

“Oh, just go to the Floyd’s parking lot,” the blond one says. Floyd’s is the local supermarket chain. “There’s always a gentleman who sells them there every year.”

“They’re very nice trees, too,” the redhead adds. She’s shuffling the cards for another game of five-card stud and really, who knew that was the game of choice of sweet little old ladies. “Nice and big, for a good price. It’s where we get ours every year.”

“You put up a real tree every year?” Drake asks, arching an eyebrow. He’s dipping a snickerdoodle in his tea. “That seems like a lot of work.”

“Oh, we make do.”

“I could come over and help you,” Launchpad speaks up.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” the blond protests, but she’s smiling, “We couldn’t ask you to do such a thing.”

Launchpad already knows he’ll be putting up two trees this year by the way she says it. They call the very next day and ask him if he could just zip over for a quick minute. It takes less than ten minutes, overall, just to get the tree up, but then there’s more cookies and eggnog and the eggnog has rum in it. He feels bad for having a drink, but he thinks it’s okay if he doesn’t tell Drake about it. If he smells it on him, he can say they made rumballs. Little white lies don’t hurt anybody.

“Do you want some to take home? We could whip you up a quick batch real quick. I think we have an orange juice bottle nearly empty we could use.”

“I can’t,” he shakes his head at their offer, but they’re already shoving a second glass in his hand. He drains half of it and wipes at the mustache it leaves across his mouth. “Drake, he can’t drink. He’s on some medication for, uh, his blood pressure. So, uh, I try not to drink around him.”

“Such a sweet young man you are. Well, finish what you have here and take your handsome boyfriend some of these instead.”

It’s one of those store-bought boxes that are printed to look like they’re a wrapped present but the top and bottom are separate. The words Spot’s Candy is printed across the front in some fancy old-timey font. He holds the candy in one hand, loosely clutching it against his chest. He doesn’t mind being around the couple, they make him feel like a little kid again which is something he hadn't realized he had missed, but he feels bad about leaving Drake alone and invites them to come over again sometime soon.

“Hannukah begins in just a couple of days, you’re welcome to come join us.”

“Oh, we’ve never celebrated Hannukah,” the blond says. “What’s a traditional Hannukah gift? Doughnuts?”

“Jews can’t eat yeast,” the redhead butts in. “They can only have flatbreads, like naan.”

“That’s only during Passover,” Launchpad says. “And you don’t have to bring anything. I’ll cook for you, my treat.”

“We’ll certainly drop by for a visit. Just tell us when.”

He returns to the house with the candy and it’s another so-so day. When he arrives back at the house, Drake is standing by the window, waiting for him to come back Launchpad thinks. Or maybe he was just watching it snow outside.

“Have any trouble with the tree?”

“Nope,” Launchpad says, removing his scarf. He hangs it and his coat near the fire to dry. The snow is already melting into them. “Glad they called me over to help them, though. I realized when I was in the middle of doing it that I have no idea how to put up a real Christmas tree. Now I’ve got some experience under my belt with the help of a couple of seasoned professionals.”

Drake just nods. He must have missed him in the short time he was away though because he comes over and wraps his arms around Launchpad’s waist and just rests his head against his chest. Launchpad puts his own arms around him back for a minute. Until Drake pulls back and asks him what’s in his hand.

“Oh, candy. Here.”

They’re chocolates. The labels are on the lid and Drake reads through them, sitting on the couch next to him as Launchpad picks them up and smells them, trying to figure out the flavor on scent alone. He doesn’t see the outlines of any nuts on the surface.

“Ew, they’re old people candy,” Drake complains. He reads the names out loud, snorting. “Rum raisin, terrific toffee, heavenly horehound. Have they even had horehound candy? I would’ve gone with horrible horehound. Molasses milk, amazing anise. What in the hell is anise?”

“No idea,” Launchpad replies. “It sounds like an old-timey liquor, maybe?”

“Well, let’s see,” Drake replies, searching for corresponding candy in the box. He picks up a rectangle of dark chocolate and picks it up, biting into it. Launchpad watches him chew it for a second. Drake’s brow furrows as if he’s contemplating whether or not the candy is worth finishing.

“Is it any go-”

Drake’s eyes widen and he spits out the candy. Launchpad laughs and turns to grab a cup of neglected tea from this morning left on the side table. But he turns back quickly when he heard the strangled whine that comes from his lover. Drake is already curled into a ball, his hand covering his face, and he’s shaking. His breath is coming out fast and in short huffs.

“What’s wrong? Did, did-“

“They gave me fucking licorice candy!”

“What? You mean the anise? Is anise-”

“They know! They know who I am! What he did do to me! They know and they sent you home with licorice candy to fuck with me because they, because they want me to suffer too. They know I should have died just like everyone back homes knows. We can all this way to get away from all their eyes and now they’ve followed us here and they know, they know, they all know!”

“DW, I mean, shit. Drake! Can you please calm down!”

Maybe not the best thing to say. Drake is on his feet now, grabbing the candy from Launchpad’s lap. He throws it into the fireplace before Launchpad can say anything. Launchpad jumps to his feet, running over to sweep the burning cardboard that is hanging half out of the fireplace away from the braided rug on the floor before it. He doesn’t even realize he’s still yelling at Drake to calm down until he hears the words echoing in the room.

“I’m always calm! Excuse me if I’m not always the perfect, calm, obedient boyfriend you always wanted! Excuse me for being a little fucking traumatized by the shit I went through! You have no idea what it was like, no idea!”

“Do you think it didn’t mess me up too?” Launchpad demands to know, grabbing Drake by the shoulders and holding him in place. The smaller duck struggles against him, planting his palms on Launchpad’s chest and pushing but he’s smaller in every way possible and has no chance of getting free. “Do you think every day that you were missing didn’t feel like a nightmare that wouldn’t end? Do you think I just sat at home and ate pizza and watched soap operas the whole time? I was out there! Looking for you! Every single day!”

“Exactly,” Drake screams back. He kicks at Launchpad’s stomach and he finally releases him, taking a step back before the hit lands. Drake misses, hitting nothing but air, and falls forward, losing his balance. Launchpad catches him by the elbow, but Drake is already swatting him away. He falls onto his hands and knees and stays in that position for a minute, breathing heavily. When he speaks his voice is lower, less shrill, but just as angry, if more contained. He’s spitting the words out between clenched jaws. “Exactly. You were out there looking for me. You could talk to people, smell the air, taste the food you ate. And I, all I had was the licorice. That disgusting fucking licorice. And the silence in my head and the sound of my own breathing.”

Launchpad’s fight drains from his body as if it were a physical substance that could just be released. It’s like it spills through the pads of his feet and is soaked up by the floorboards. He kneels down beside Drake, touching his lower back with his hands, but he doesn’t respond to his touch. He’s staring at the floor, lost now, not feeling, not seeing, not hearing.

Just like when they found him.

* * *

“He’s not talking,” Gizmoduck had insisted when Launchpad first arrived at S.H.U.S.H. headquarters. And he had kept insisting that as he followed Launchpad down the elevators to the lowest level and as he stormed through the labyrinth of hallways that lead to where S.H.U.S.H. keeps the most dangerous and disturbed of their prisoners. “It’s best if we just leave him be for a few days, see if he’s up to talking after he hasn’t eaten in over seventy-two hours.”

“No,” Launchpad had hollered back at the superhero who was somehow struggling to keep up with him. “We don’t have time for that. I’ll get it out of him.”

 _Him_. Negaduck. Jim Starling. His former hero. The man who stole his life away.

He’s in cuffs when they arrive at the cell but free to walk around. They’ve left him in his normal clothes which would be considered abnormal for anybody besides him, a supervillain. More of a costume than a uniform. Because it is a costume. Or it was anyway, at one time. Launchpad recognizes the cut of it. The placement of the buttons. The turtleneck. Except the colors are all wrong now. The yellow vest, the black cape, the red turtleneck. Like somebody has pasted the television Darkwing Duck into an old photo editor and just used the invert tool on him.

The old actor knows what they want before they even ask. He recognizes Launchpad, how could he not considering how many times he has fought him at Drake’s side, and he sneers at his appearance.

“Darkwing’s little fu-,” he begins, but Launchpad already has his hand around his throat and is slamming him hard against the wall. Negaduck’s head bounces against the concrete and his hat falls to the floor at their feet.

“You will tell me where he is!”

He can’t speak because he is pinned against the wall by his throat a good foot off the ground but he tries to choke out something as he kicks and flails in the air. Launchpad tightens his grip until his face begins to turn maroon then throws him onto the ground. He kicks him once, hard, in the ribs, and follows it with a second. Before he can throw a third one a hard, robotic arm is hooked around his elbow, trying to pull him back.

“This isn’t how we-”

“There is no ‘we,’ this is I. If you don’t want to watch it then you can go back upstairs.”

Gizmoduck doesn’t say anything. But he releases Launchpad’s arm and rolls back, out of his way but not leaving the cell. Launchpad kicks him a third time and then demands Negaduck speak.

The older man is still trying to catch his breath. He’s wheezing as he slowly pulls himself up to his knees, a difficult task given his injuries and his cuffed wrists. As he begins to gain his breath once more it sounds like he is crying but Launchpad doesn’t mistake the sound. He’s not crying, he is laughing. Low, throaty chuckles that start deep in his chest, and then he looks up to meet Launchpad eye. Blood is running down his face already.

“You think I’m going to talk so quickly? Come on, you fucking pussy, if you want an answer then let me really have it.”

He does. He lays into the aging duck before him for two hours. He beats him until his face is all but unrecognizable. He breaks his fingers, one by one. He dislocates his knees. One of his eyes has come free from its socket and dangles against his cheek like a disgusting variation of a child's paddleball toy, lost in the carnage of his face. And he continues to laugh.

“He’s not going to talk,” Gizmoduck says to him when Launchpad is taking a break to drink some water and bandage up his hands. It isn’t Gizmoduck though, it’s Fenton, the quiet, calm voice of his old friend and the godfather to their daughter, not that of a superhero. “He’ll let you kill him before he says anything.

“Who says I don’t plan on talking?” Negaduck’s voice, a slur through broken teeth demands from the other side of the cell. “I’ve just been waiting for somebody to ask me politely.”

“Politely?” Launchpad asks. He’s tired and his arms ache. The question comes out less aggressively than he had planned and he’s pretty sure it’s because he’s so drained. “I'll ask you politely, you disgusting piece of shit!”

Gizmoduck touches Launchpad’s arm, quieting him before he speaks. “Sir, can you please tell us what happened to Darkwing Duck?”

“Certainly, my dear fellow,” Negaduck replies just as politely. “He’s dead.”

He chuckles and then he began to laugh in earnest once more, letting go of whatever was holding him back as he explodes into uncontrollable laughter. “You’ve been searching for him this whole time and he probably didn’t even survive that first night. Not after I was through with him.”

“What did you do to him,” Launchpad demands to know, raising his fist once more in threat, but Negaduck seems totally happy to spill his secrets now that the first one is out.

“I buried him alive,” Negaduck confesses gleefully, holding his stomach with his broken, bound hands as he guffaws in pure, unconstrained joy over the very idea of it. Blood sprays onto the floor beside his head. “Right across the street from that ratty little apartment of yours. He’s been there the whole time and you never even knew it.”

Right across the street from their apartment? The synagogue. The same one where they held Gosalyn’s bat mitzvah only a few years ago. The only reason they are even been able to afford their apartment is that the buildings surrounding the synagogue all belong to the congregation and Launchpad had managed to convince some of the members of the board to give them a deal on the rent due to his family’s connections. Why would he…

Consecrated grounds. Morgana’s powers wouldn’t have been able to sense Drake buried there.

“Where?” he demands to know, sneering down at the husk of a duck that remains at his feet. “Where did to bury him? In the back? The front? Somewhere inside the temple?”

Negaduck giggles, looking up at Launchpad from the ground. One of his teeth falls out and clatters against the blood-soaked stone floor.

“I imagine his flesh must have rotted off weeks ago. I wonder if the maggots managed to get inside the box.”

He’s not going to be any help. Launchpad already knows that. He wants them to know where to find Drake so they would have at least a general idea where he’s been, otherwise, nobody ever would have had any clue where to look, but he still wants them to have to hunt for him.

“Gizmoduck-”

“Already on it,” he replies, speaking into his communication on his arm. “We need officers at-”

He stops mid-sentence, then looks towards Launchpad, smiling awkwardly.

“Uh, what’s your address again?”

By the time Launchpad arrives home the cops have already swarmed the property. The sirens are off but their lights are on. The entire neighborhood is lit up with the red flashing glow like some sickening Christmas display. Even from his carport across the street, he can hear the police shouting at each other, yelling out instructions, and the crackling of the hand radios. Gosalyn is sitting on the stoop of their apartment building with several of the other occupants, watching the commotion but having no idea what is going on.

“Dad! Something’s happening at the temple,” she says, already jumping to her feet when she sees Launchpad approaching. She’s still in her nightclothes: one of her school’s old softball t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants. He’s wearing the same clothes he’s been wearing for three days but there’s still blood on his knuckles; his jacket hides the splattered gore on his shirt.

She runs to him, arms outstretched, and he catches her in his arms. He’s ready to rush over there into the midst of everything, to help locate his fiancée, but he knows he won’t be any help with anything right now. They have fancy equipment – metal detectors and sonic-something-or-others scanning the earth, and he’d just be in the way. For now, he needs to be here, to explain everything to Gosalyn. It’s good to have her in his arms right now, to have somebody he loves with him here.

Except he doesn’t get it out. Because the moment he gets out the words “your father” he is already a sobbing mess and Gosalyn takes over as the strong one in what remains of their tiny little family. Despite having two inches on Drake, she’s still absurdly tiny in his arms, small enough he could easily crush her if he hugs her too tightly, so he clings to her but reigns in his own strength even though he desperately wants to just grip her with everything he has inside of him. He just wants to squeeze something, preferably somebody, so hard that his muscles ache from the effort.

Somehow, she manages to work out what he’s saying. That Drake’s disappearance has something to do with what’s going on across the street. When she sees the shovels they’re carrying across the lawn a small warbling sound escapes her throat.

“How long?”

“The, the first night.”

“I could have seen him,” she swallows, but her eyes are shining. “If I had just stayed here that night, I might have looked out my own bedroom window and saw him. What if I hadn’t insisted on going to the dock? What if I had just done as you asked and stayed here?”

“No what-ifs,” Launchpad shakes his head. “You’re shaking. It’s cold out Gos, here, my coat.”

She doesn’t do anything to take it, but she doesn’t stop her father from draping it over her shoulders. It’s giant on her, as expected, and he doesn’t think about the dried blood that is probably smearing the inside until it’s too late. If she notices it she doesn’t say anything. At least she’s wearing shoes. They accompany each other across the street. It rained earlier and the ground outside the temple is soggy, soft with ankle-deep mud in some places. One of the police offers steps forward to stop them but Gizmoduck takes him by the elbow and says something softly into his ear and they let them through without another word.

Did he tell them he was Darkwing Duck’s partner? Or did he tell them they were Drake Mallard’s family?

Are. They are his family, he says inside his own mind. Drake will always be their family and they’ll always be each other’s family. Even if they’re not all here any longer.

Gizmoduck comes over to them and leads them around back to the small garden in the back. It’s mostly a place used for taking pictures or maybe doing some light reading on sunny days. Launchpad can’t recall it ever being used in any official capacity. There are some trees, a scattering of blooming lilac bushes, a small rose garden. Or there was a rose garden. The roses have been torn from the ground and are lying in a heap on one side, only a sprinkling of small green leaves sprouting along their branches on this mid-May night. A handful of men are digging in the ground where they had once stood.

Goslayn goes to take a step towards the hole but Launchpad grabs her by the wrist, pulling her back to him, ignoring her protests. He holds her tight to his side with an arm around her shoulders.

“I’m old enough to-”

“Nobody is ever old enough to see their father like that.”

She doesn’t argue, just leans into him, burying her face into his chest. He pulls her a little closer with his one arm but his other is left free to dangle at his side. He’s making a tight fist and doesn’t realize it until his hand begins to ache. They’re still throbbing from the beating.

They wait and Launchpad doesn’t move any closer to the hole because he is afraid of what they will find. He’s imagining Drake just lying there, eyes closed, hands folded peacefully across his chest. Like how a corpse looks at a funeral. Like how his own father had looked at his. Except it’s been five weeks since Drake was taken and he’s been in there, deep underground, for five weeks. Alone. Was he conscious when he was buried? Or did he wake up to find himself in that box, trapped? Did he know he was alone? Did he know those were his last few hours? His last few minutes? Launchpad had asked Fenton before he had gotten into his car how long somebody could last underground, and the scientist had explained that maybe five hours was the best he could have hoped for before running out of oxygen. Less if he had been panicking, breathing heavy.

“Found it,” a gruff voice calls out.

“Help me pull it out,” another voice calls.

“Careful,” a third voice demands. Launchpad recognizes the third voice. Gyro Gearloose. Launchpad blinks at him but his mind cannot even begin to fathom why he would be here right now.

“Stay here,” Launchpad says, turning to Gosalyn. He has never been the stern parent, that was always Drake’s role in the family, but, well, he supposes he’ll have to start stepping up. He makes it absolutely clear he will not tolerate her disobeying him right now. “If I tell you to leave then just listen to me, okay?”

“O, okay.” She is remarkably strong for a teenage girl. Launchpad wishes there was somebody around to stay with her but everybody is busy and she wouldn’t want some random cop looking after her.

Gizmoduck is there beside Gyro. He looks over to see Launchpad joining them and shakes his head, grabbing at Launchpad’s arm.

“It’s best if you don’t-”

“He’s my fiancée,” he growls, shaking off Fenton’s gentle hold. “If anybody deserves to get a look at him, it’s me.”

“Just leave him,” Gyro instructs when Fenton tries once more to lead him away. “He’s right.”

They use ropes to pull out the box. It looks like a trunk of some kind. Black with silver accents. Maybe something musicians would use for equipment on the road. It takes Launchpad a moment to recognize it for what it is. A costume trunk. The initials JS are set in the side with metal letters that match the metal latches on it. People are yelling things all around him. Words that Launchpad is utterly incapable of understanding. Then they are reaching for the latches, then they are touching the latches, then they are pulling up the latches. Then it’s time for the lid.

He’s curled up in a fetal position within the four walls of the box. His wrists, wasted away so that the bones stand out, are cuffed to his ankles with rusted iron shackles that look like they came from an old cowboy movie. The skin there is visible, the feathers gone and his flesh is raw and scabbed over from struggling against the confines. But it wouldn’t matter if he weren’t restrained, if he had managed to squirm his way out of the cuffs, the box is so small and Drake is packed in so tightly he never could have turned over or adjusted his position more than an inch or two. This isn’t even counting the mass he has lost. His feathers are filthy, matted. The smell is atrocious.

Launchpad doesn’t even realize he’s covering his mouth with the palm of his hand until he feels the vomit hit. He kneels to the side, not being able to stand the idea of throwing up on Drake’s body. As if it needs further desecration than this.

It’s just liquid. He hasn’t eaten in hours. He’s not even sure if he’s eaten today. The last five weeks have been a blur and his nutrition has suffered considerably. But now that can end. They’ve found Drake. They’ve found him.

Above him, he can hear the voices of Gyro and Fenton.

“-no signs of decomposition-”

“-the marks on his wrists wouldn’t have had time to-”

He wipes at his mouth and sits up on his knees, turning to look at his fiancée again. He still feels like throwing up but he also feels like crying and he doesn’t know which to do first. Except the thought is lost entirely when Drake’s jaw moves. It’s just one single rotation of teeth grinding, and Launchpad is frantically questioning this in his mind. He’s heard about the things the body can do after death but is chewing one of them? Are there some weird tendons in the body that would cause a corpse to move in that way?

Then he smells the black licorice.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter lost me some readers. Oh well, I write for myself more than anything so whatever.

It’s early morning when the knock comes on the door. Very early morning. Half-past three, in fact, but Launchpad has been sleeping fitfully on the couch since one, waiting on their arrival, so the knock should in theory come as no surprise. Still, he finds himself abruptly startled out of his sleep, reaching for and almost knocking over the ancient stained-glass lamp on the side table. He catches it in one hand as his other tries to figure out which way to turn the little knob to get the bulb to light up.

“I’m coming,” he calls. He pokes around on the floor, trying to locate his slippers but they’re missing, probably kicked somewhere under the couch. There’s really no need for them anyway. He’s kept the living room warm all night, not letting the fire burn down as he usually would once they retired to bed. “Don’t leave, I’ll be right there.”

As soon as the door is open his arms are full of a lovely red-headed young woman who is kissing him hard on the cheek and expressing her joy to finally have arrived. Her hair seems to be everywhere, getting in Launchpad’s eyes and in his mouth. He rummages through it to get to her head and play a kiss on her scalp. She squeezes him hard one last time and lets go, falling back onto the porch.

“We got lost as soon as we dropped signal. I thought we were going to have to pull over and sleep in our rental until one of the gas stations in this town we passed through opened up. But this nerd over here insisted we didn’t need phones to find our way.”

“I brought maps,” a high, shy-sounding voice says from somewhere out in the dark coldness of the outside. “And planned out the route ahead of time, just in case.”

“Oh, you, get in here.”

Gosalyn all but drags the young man into the house with her and, well. Launchpad doesn’t know what he was expecting exactly but this was not it. He was thinking maybe a football player. He knows Drake was expecting some sort of punk rocker. They were both expecting somebody at least as tall as Gosalyn, who is a tall girl in her own right, having outgrown Drake in height in eighth grade. Launchpad can’t help but blink in astonishment at the young man standing there who would even make Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera look like a giant in comparison.

A slip of a thing with giant, round glasses obscuring his pale blue eyes. His feathers, including those on top of his head, are a pale yellow. Not a deep egg-yolk yellow but something more subtle and warm. They give him an almost soft tint compared to a pristine white or bright lemon, like a frosted bulb compared to an LED.

“Dad, this is Honker Muddlefoot. Honk, this is my father.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Honker says, the epitome of politeness as he reaches out one delicate hand to shake Launchpad’s. “Gosalyn has told me a lot about you. She said you used to be a pilot?”

“Well, I like to think of myself as always being a pilot,” Launchpad laughs, rubbing at the back of his neck with the hand that isn’t pumping the young man’s vigorously. “You know, it’s like riding a bicycle. Never forget how.”

“Yes, of course,” the poor boy stutters. Gosalyn disappears past him, back onto the front porch into the pre-dawn darkness. “I was referring to a former pilot only in the professional sense, sir. I meant no offense.”

“Can it with the ‘sir’ stuff, Honk. You can’t offend my parents. Oof, why did you pack so many books?”

Gosalyn is dragging, or trying to drag at least, a duffle bag half her size through the door but it’s catching on something. Launchpad steps by the boy and picks it up easily, throwing the straps over his shoulder. It rests against his upper back, the weight firmly holding it in place against his muscles.

“Do you want this in your room? Is there anything else you need carried in?”

“We’ll get the rest tomorrow,” Gosalyn shakes her head as she walks in. The boyfriend closes the door behind him and wipes the snow off his shoes on the entry-way rug. Gosalyn tracks snow onto the hardwood. “Honk’s medication is in that one. Where’s Dad?”

“Upstairs sleeping,” Launchpad replies, leading the way to said stairs. “As we all should be. Come on, let’s get you tucked away for the night and you can see-”

“Dad!”

Gosalyn races past Launchpad straight up the stairs where Drake is standing, rubbing sleepily at his eyes. His robe is loose over his blue-flannel pajamas and he obviously just woke up when he heard them all talking downstairs. He’s smiling though and he greets Gosalyn with a tight hug.

“It’s so nice to see you, sweetie,” he says when they break apart, holding their daughter at arm’s length. Launchpad is nearly to the top of the stairs by then and Gosalyn’s pint-sized boyfriend is right behind him. Drake peers down and around, searching for whoever this villain could be that dare try to snatch their daughter from them, but he’s obscured behind Launchpad’s width until he reaches the top of the stairs and moves to the side. Drake’s face is probably as shocked as Launchpad’s own was when he spots the boy. Except then he’s grinning and greeting the kid like he’s part of the family with an overeager handshake and a clap to the shoulder.

“Nice to meet you Honker, Gosalyn has told me absolutely nothing about you. I assume you go to Duckburg University?”

“No,” the boy shakes his head, rubbing at the spot where Drake had hit him on his upper arm. “Yarvard, sir.”

“An ivy league boy, huh? You must come from a rich family.”

“No, sir, I’m on a scholarship. Studying history for now but I plan on applying to the law school once I graduate.”

“Ah, committing yourself to the justice system. A worthwhile endeavor. Do you plan to-”

“Dad!” Gosalyn interrupts, her voice high and whiny. “It’s not even four A.M., you can grill my boyfriend once the sun comes up. We’ve been on the move for ten hours and need to get some shut-eye.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Drake apologizes. He seems to suddenly notice his robe his open and pulls it closed and ties it. “Your room is all made up for you. Come along.”

Drake leads the way into the bedroom, followed by Gosalyn, then Honker, and at the very end, carrying the heavy bag, is Launchpad. They hadn’t mentioned it to Gosalyn yet, but when they had packed up her bedroom before leaving the city, Drake had meticulously photographed everything in it so they could attempt to reconstruct the space in the new house. But the room is much bigger than Gosalyn’s had been in the apartment and everything in it looks disproportionate as a result, all mushed together in a close proximate of her old bedroom at one end. Launchpad lays down the bag on the empty side of the room, almost knocking his head against where the ceiling starts to slope down, following the curve of the roof on this side of the house.

“This is really weird,” Gosalyn says, walking over to touch one of her old stuffed animals on her bookshelf, a green brachiosaurus Launchpad had bought for her one year on a trip to the natural history museum. “It’s like you recreated my bedroom in one of those founder museums. Mr. Noodle Neck is even facing the bed at the same angle.”

“We wanted you to feel like this is your home if you want it to be, sweetheart. Though we had to get you some new sheets because the new bed is, uh, a double,” Drake is explaining to Gosalyn. His face reddens on the last word and he turns to pull down the sheets like the kids need to have turndown service provided for them as if they were some upscale hotel. Honker is stuck to her side like glue, which doesn’t seem to be making the conversation any easier. “So, you know, it should be big enough for the both of you. To sleep in. We’ll see you in the morning, so go ahead and get some sleep while the sun’s still down.”

“No hanky panky,” Launchpad ads, clarifying what Drake was trying to say. He shakes his finger in the general direction of the two. “The bed is for sleeping only.”

“Dad!”

“Launchpad!”

Drake grabs at Launchpad’s hand and drags him out of the bedroom, calling a goodnight over his shoulder as he slams the door closed behind him. They hear Gosalyn groan with mortification on the other side of the door.

“I can’t believe you said that,” his partner says, but he’s laughing into his hand, trying to mute the sound. “She’s an adult now, we can’t tell her what to do.”

“We can in this house.”

Drake just shakes his head, but he’s smiling. He reaches down to take Launchpad’s hand and drags him down towards the opposite end of the hallway.

“Come get back in bed already, I’ve been freezing alone in there since you got up.”

* * *

“So how’s Dad been?”

“He’s…had his good days and his bad days,” Launchpad says, keeping his eyes on the road. There’s a creaking sound above them as he takes a sharp turn. Through the rearview mirror, he sees another small chunk of green fall past the back window. “The last couple of weeks have been kind of rough but I think he’ll be doing better now that you’re home. He’s missed you.”

“And I’ve missed him.”

“This is the longest we’ve gone without seeing you since you went to hockey camp when you were thirteen,” Launchpad reminds her. “It means a lot to _both_ of us that you could make it.”

“Oh, Dad, of course, I’ve missed you too. Stop fishing for compliments. Didn’t I suggest we go to town alone together? I’m just worried about him.”

Well, she is correct. It had in-fact been Gosalyn’s idea to leave Honker so that she and Launchpad could be alone when they went to pick up the tree at the grocery store. She had reasoned that Drake and Honker would get along well since “you’re both bookworms,” and had used the excuse she wanted some one-on-one time with her other father, but Launchpad is pretty sure her real reason for getting him alone was to question him about Drake without fear of him hearing. She’s always been closer to Drake than Launchpad, which is only to be expected since Drake had officially been a single father to her for nearly three years before he and Launchpad had finally made the leap to cohabitation. Doesn’t mean his envy over their closeness doesn’t get to him sometimes, though.

“You just wanted to pick out the biggest tree you could find,” he excuses, brushing off that familiar little sting. Never anything bad enough to feel a sense of bitterness over, just a melancholy sense of regret. His voice is lightly teasing. “If you knew how to drive stick you probably would’ve just taken the car when my back was turned.”

The tree is huge. Definitely larger than any of the artificial trees they used to set up at the bridge base because their apartment had been too small to house a full-size one. Might even have been the biggest one in the parking lot. Gosalyn had been the one to spot it, running over to hug it and declaring it “absolutely perfect” at first meeting.

“This is our first real Christmas tree,” she told the guy that took their money. “I thought it would smell more like a car air freshener.”

“Not when it’s iced over like this little lady,” the man had replied, chuckling at her comment like she was a little girl. He must have been pushing nearly seventy, doubtless, a nineteen-year-old was just a child to him. They’re starting to feel like children to Launchpad but he has his suspicions that might have something to do with a daughter always feeling like a child to a father. “Give it a couple days to warm up and you’ll smell the pine scent.”

Both Drake and Honker come outside to help them carry it inside, though Honker ends up getting relegated to look out, calling “left!” “right!” “left!” as they maneuver it around the car, up the stairs, and to the side of the living room furthest from the door. Nobody driving by will be able to see it lit up outside the window but that corner of the room really is built for a tree, as if somebody had erected the house with the very intention that a giant Christmas tree be placed there someday.

“Geez, babe,” Drake whistles, staring up at the towering fir that Launchpad is supporting with one hand. He’s turning it, trying to figure out which side is the worse side so they can make sure it’s facing into the corner of the room. All the sides look nice. “Did you go chop it down yourself? Where do you even get a tree that big? Look at the size of it.”

“We’ll trim the part at the top,” Launchpad says, also looking up. There is one tall branch sticking straight up, brushing the ceiling, but it really is too long to stick the star on anyway. It would probably bend with the weight of the ornament and end up falling off or drooping down the side. Once they prune it down the star should fit with a couple of inches to spare. Hopefully. “Guy at the place said it’s best to set it up and then let the snow just melt off the branches. So they fall more evenly than if you just let it melt lying down.”

“He also said to cut off some of the base,” Gosalyn reminds him. She’s bouncing on her toes excitedly and she could be ten again except she’s holding Honker’s hand instead of her fathers’ and there’s something bittersweet about that thought. “So it sucks up more water.”

“What a hassle, just for a real tree,” Drake says, still looking up. He reaches out to touch one of the branches, rubbing the pine needles between his fingers. “Sure does smell nice though.”

“Nothing like a car air freshener,” Gosalyn says.

“More like a Yankee candle. Like that one your friend Lena gave us that one year.”

“Me and Honk will go get the saw,” Gosalyn decides, releasing her boyfriend’s hand, preparing to run off in search of said saw. Then she frowns, contemplating something in her head. “Dad, where do you keep the saw?”

“Shed out back,” Launchpad says, nodding in the general direction of the aforementioned shed because his hands are still holding the tree upright. “Right through the back door in the kitchen.”

“How did he know you were referring to him?” Honker wonders out loud, following after his boisterous girlfriend. She stops in her tracks and he bumps into her with a “hmph.”

“What do you mean how did he know I was referring to him? I said ‘Dad, where do you keep your saw.’”

“But you call them both that” the boy objects, blushing as he smoothes the wrinkles out of his button-down shirt. He adjusts his glasses, a nervous tic that Launchpad can spot a mile away. “Excuse me if I sound ignorant on the subject, I mean no offense, but doesn’t it get confusing referring to both of your fathers as ‘Dad?’”

“What should I call them?” Gosalyn asks, throwing out her arms in exasperation. “Pa? We don’t live in a little house on the prairie. Though you wouldn’t guess it from the looks of this place.”

They watch the two kids disappear into the kitchen. Drake rolls his eyes after them, but he’s smiling.

“Come on, let’s lay the tree down so we can cut off the end. You take the bottom and I’ll take the top.”

“Usually this goes the other way,” Launchpad quips before he can help himself. Drake snorts despite himself and warns Launchpad not to make a joke like that in front of the boyfriend.

“He might literally shit himself. I think we may be the first gay couple he’s ever met.”

“What if she ends up marrying him?”

“Bite your tongue!”

They put down a sheet to catch the sawdust and Gosalyn tries to cut into the tree first but the trunk is thick and frozen so she hands off the duty to Launchpad to finish the one-inch deep trench she started, holding the tree still as he works. Once it’s upright and settling they join Drake and Honker in the kitchen where they’re talking over cups of hot tea.

“What smells like boiling grass?” Launchpad asks, sniffing at the air.

“It’s this disgusting tea Honker is always drinking,” Gosalyn says. “I think it may be made of soylent green. It’s really gross.”

“It is not,” Drake objects. “Neither of you has any taste is all.”

“I’ll make us some hot chocolate instead,” Launchpad decides, grabbing the electric kettle from its spot on the counter. “You want fluff in yours, Gos?”

“Did I flunk math three report cards in a row?”

After the disruptive arrival in the wee hours of the morning, the rest of the day had been somewhat off-kilter. Drake had been the first awake by several hours. His failed attempt at sleeping on the couch had left Launchpad more exhausted than if he had just stayed awake the whole time and neither Gosalyn and Honker had made an appearance until nearly eleven. By the time Launchpad had insisted on cooking them something for lunch, prepared the lunch, and they had all eaten said lunch, it had been past noon and the day was nearly over, according to Drake anyway.

As if they don’t have an entire month to spend together before Gosalyn has to go back to school.

“We’ll go drop the rental off tomorrow morning,” Drake says, looking through his to-do list he had written this morning when the rest of them are sleeping. He's holding the pad of paper in one hand and the grass-scented tea in the other. “Then we’ll come home and start on the salt dough ornaments in the morning, have lunch, then do the popcorn strings in the afternoon.”

“Are we a family or a sweatshop?” Gosalyn asks, rolling her eyes. “What’s the rush, Dad?”

“You know we can’t put up the tree until we finish this year’s tree ornaments.”

Both types of tree decorations are a Mallard-McQuack family tradition. All the old cookie-cutter ornaments are still around, they make two each per year, but they throw away the popcorn ones on January 1st to discourage rats and other pests from getting into their holiday decorations when they’re packed away for the year. Launchpad is missing one year of the salt dough ornaments – Drake and Gosalyn had made them together without him that year. They’re all missing the ones from two years ago when nobody had been in the mood to mix up the dough and wait for them to bake in the oven.

“We could just buy yearly ornaments like everyone else?” Gosalyn suggests, egging on Drake. She knows perfectly well how important this entire tradition is to him and she also knows he expects her to make fun of it. “Maybe get some of those cool Disney ones?”

“Don’t make me ground you, young lady.”

“Dad, I’m nineteen.”

“I don’t care if you’re ninety. Honker, I’m sure your own family has some sort of holiday traditions like this, right?” Drake asks, prodding at the poor kid to help his case.

“Huh? My family?” Honker looks startled. He nearly topples over his cup of still-steaming tea. “Well, not making ornaments, no. My dad likes getting the really fancy ones from the store, the kind with all the gold sequins and beads? But my mom has this baking schedule where she makes a different type of cookie every day in December. We were always expected to help out if we were home and didn’t have school that day.”

“I like that tradition,” Launchpad speaks up. He claps the boy on the back, nearly knocking him out of his chair. “Do you think it’s too late to start it this year?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Why don’t you tell us a little more about your family,” Drake suggests. “We still have a while before we need to start getting ready and Gosalyn hasn’t told us anything about them. Your father likes expensive things?”

“Uh, not expensive really,” Honker hesitates. “More…flashy, I guess. You could even say he leans towards gaudy. He really goes all out at Christmas with the lights outside. I used to have trouble sleeping as a kid because it was so bright outside my window, I always thought the sun was up and I overslept before school. Gave me a lot of anxiety.”

“What does he do for a living?” Launchpad asks, not sure if he wants to know.

“Cars salesman, for this big Chevrolet dealership. He was originally hired to dress up as a giant tortoise on the lot but they eventually promoted him to salesman. He manages it now.”

“I…see,” Drake says. Launchpad notices the way his mouth quivers and recognizes the fact he’s trying not to laugh. “And your mother?”

“Stay at home mom,” Honker replies. He picks up his tea and sips at it. “She worked at a glassware shop before she had my older brother but decided to stay home to raise us after that. She likes to garden a lot.”

“We’ve been thinking of starting a garden next spring,” Drake mentions in a way that sounds nonchalant but it’s anything but to Launchpad because this is the first he’s heard of such a thing. It’s hard to imagine Drake digging in the dirt, let alone pulling up weeds and dealing with insects. “What does your mother grow? I could probably use some pointers.”

“Flowers, mostly. There’s some grapevines in the back but I think she grew those just to keep the neighbors from peeking through the slits in the fence.”

Launchpad wonders what the boy must be thinking about this entire situation. Two middle-aged (or close to it anyway) men uprooting their life in the city to live in an old farmhouse hours away from anything. He probably thinks they’re crazy. Or maybe Gosalyn gave him some phony excuse, one close enough to the truth without spilling the secret of Drake’s identity. Hopefully, she didn’t tell him that, anyway. Launchpad excuses himself to go use the bathroom and checks on the fire. Which then leads to him going outside to bring some more wood in because it's getting late and he hates being outside at night when he imagines the mountain lions are prowling.

“And then she plans to rip out the divider between my old room and his, once I find a place,” Honker's continuing some story when he returns to the kitchen. “But he really hates the tortoise costume so I don’t think he’s going to last as long as my father thinks he will. My brother can be kind of headstrong.”

“You mean he’s a total ass,” Gosalyn snorts.

“Gosalyn!”

“No, Dad, seriously. He’s like, the kind of person who probably ripped wings off houseflies as a kid. He just sits around the house all day, I’ve seen him. Honk’s mom waits on him hand and foot like he has two broken legs. I bet he’d make her carry him to the bathroom if he didn’t weight as much as a bus.”

“That’s not a nice thing to say about somebody,” Launchpad tries this time. Their daughter can be stubborn but she usually responds better to requests from Launchpad than Drake because she isn’t used to him being so authoritarian. “How would you feel if somebody made fun of your weight?”

“I’m not making fun of his weight,” she protests. “He’s taller than you and built like a bull.”

“Wait, seriously?” Drake looks at Honker, skeptically. The little guy can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds dripping wet. Launchpad has to agree with his partner’s look because he can’t imagine a version of the kid walking around taller than himself.

“Tank takes after my father,” Honker says, almost apologetically, as if he’s offended them by being so very small, or if his brother has offended them by being so very large. “Uh, I come from a mixed family. My father’s a goose and my mother’s a canary. I take after my mom, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Launchpad agrees.

“Well, who are we to say anything about unconventional families,” Drake says. “Speaking of which, I think it’s about time I go turn off the Christmas lights in the living room so we can light the Menorah. Last night so we need to fit eight nights of festivities into one.”

The room seems subdued when the colorful Christmas lights have been unplugged from around the windows and up the side of the staircase. Bland, even. But they’re too bright and eye-catching to have on when they’re supposed to be concentrating on the lighting. Launchpad had been raised with a plain candle Menorah in his own childhood home but the garish candelabra that Scrooge had gifted him takes oil instead. They use olive oil, which is both easy to get and the best type of oil for the occasion. Launchpad lights all of the wicks but asks Gosalyn to say the blessings before he does so. She holds Honker’s hand as she recites them. He looks about as confused as Drake had the first time they had celebrated the holiday together.

Afterward, the three shortest people in the household sit down on the floor so Gosalyn can explain how the dreidel game works, leaving Launchpad standing alone to get dinner started. He already has the meal planned out, parts of it prepped already in the fridge, ready to go. There will be gifts later, but only in the form of chocolate because Gosalyn always gets her big presents on Christmas morning. He hovers behind them for another minute, standing half behind Gosalyn’s form, half behind Drake’s. Gosalyn is talking excitedly, overly-eager so that her words are overlapping. Drake is trying to talk over her now, correcting the fake rules she’s giving Honker in an attempt to make him lose. Honker, the poor boy, just sits opposite both of them, looking flabbergasted and a little frightened.

“Be nice, you two,” Launchpad says, touching them both on the top of the head with a different hand. “Or you won’t get any of the fritters I’m making for dessert.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, you got a reprieve from the angst in this chapter. Let the boys have a good holiday.


End file.
